Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare
by ACCOUNTNOLONGERFUNCTIONING
Summary: Civil war in Russia. Revolutions in the Middle-East. And a new guy fresh off selection. For the men of 22SAS this is just another day at the office. While the SAS escape with Nikolai, the Marines are tasked to support a trapped M1 Abrams stuck in the bog.
1. Prologue: FNG

Call of Duty 4

Modern Warfare

Chapter -1

FNG

_What's going on the world today, Gaz?_

_**Good news first. The world's in great shape. We've got a civil war in Russia. Government loyalists and Rebel Supernationalists, with 15000 Nukes at stake.**_

_Just another day at the office. _

_** And in the Middle-East, we've got Khaled Al-Asad. Currently the second most powerful man in the Middle-East. Word on the street is he's got the minerals to be top dog there. Intel is keeping an eye on him.**_

_And the bad news?_

_**We've got a new guy joining us today, fresh off selection. His name's Soap…**_

XXX

"Here he is."

Soap frowned as the hanger door opened wider, and he scanned the room. A massive wooden structure towered in front of him, a rope threaded down from the ceiling onto one area. He could hear gunshots from the inside, before all was silent, and a muffled voice cried out.

"TIME?!"

"Twenty-One fifteen."

"Bollocks…" the speaker emerged to Soap's right, removed his Kevlar helmet and respirator. A mop of ginger was revealed, along with pale skin. His MP-5 was held loosely at his side, with the helmet and respirator in his other. As he walked towards the group of soldiers at the front of the structure, he seemed to notice Soap for the first time, and gave him a suspicious look.

"Oi, calm down, Wallcroft."

"Sir…" the ginger-haired man replied, collapsing the stock on his MP-5.

The rest of the group turned to look at Soap. One man stood in the centre, a thick, light coloured moustache decorating his upper lip. He folded his arms, and raised an eyebrow at the newcomer.

"And who might you be?" Before Soap could answer, someone did it for him.

"This is the FNG sir. Soap."

Soap turned, to see Staff Sergeant Gary "Gaz" Cullen follow him through the door, having changed quickly into his CRW kit. He carried his Diemaco C8 in his hands, with a Remington 870 slung over the back of his modular combat vest. His brown stubble was quickly hidden as he pulled on his respirator, followed swiftly by the Kevlar helmet. "Go easy on the poor bastard sir, it's his first day."

"Yeah, well, I'll be the judge of that. You got a voice for yourself?"

"Yessir." Soap spoke for the first time. He passed his S10 over to his left hand, and went to salute the senior officer. Gaz grabbed his hand before he could do it, and forced it back down to his side.

"Don't salute the boss." The Staff whispered through his mask. "He doesn't like it, and neither do we." Soap nodded frantically, and simply stood at ease, a loose thread on his glove suddenly becoming very interesting.

"So you're Soap, eh?" Price twisted the edge of his wonderful moustache between his forefinger and thumb, looking on with interest at his new team member, taking in his black hair, pale skin and average height. "What sort of daft name is that? How'd a Muppet like you pass selection?  
"I…erm…I don't know, sir."

"Well, you must've done something right. Either that or you're some walt who managed to scale the fence."

"I guess I was part of that ten percent, sir." Soap offered the meagre excuse. Ten percent was the usual maximum pass rate for UKSF Selection. Normally, the pass rate varied between five and seven percent, but on occasion, they would have a ten. Price stared at him for a moment, before smiling, and releasing his moustache.

"You'll do. You got your weapons?"

Soap nodded. He was carrying two weapons. Slung over his chest, barrel pointed towards the ground, was a Heckler and Koch MP-5, possibly the most renowned counter terror weapon in the world. A powerful LED flashlight was clamped underneath the barrel, which Soap's left hand was currently holding. He had one magazine loaded, with three others strapped to his left thigh. On his right thigh was a Sig Sauer P226 pistol, a Swiss made weapon, which was to pistols what Swiss watches were to time.

"Right, good lad. You ever fired an SMG before?"  
"No, boss." Soap had formerly been a member of 29 Royal Artillery, a unit that was not issued with such specialist weapons.

"Then here's the time to learn. We're doing an op on a cargo ship later, and this is the rehearsal. What's the record, Griffin?"

"Nineteen seconds, sir. Gazzer."

"There we go." Price pointed towards a ladder on the edge of a set of scaffolding, which led up to the rope that was suspended from the gantries above the hanger floor. "Alright, rules state that we should be able to do this in less than sixty seconds, Soap." Price nodded, and began fitting his respirator. A moment later, Price stopped him. "If you take more than twenty-five seconds, you're out. No pressure, lad."

"Right…"

XXX

The climb to the top of the scaffolding seemed to take forever. Another SAS Operator was stood at the top, leaning back against the edge of the rails. He grabbed Soap's hand as he reached the top of the ladder, and pulled him up onto the platform.

"Alright, he's what you do." He guided Soap to the edge of the platform, while the Trooper quickly cocked his MP-5 and Sig. "Rope down onto the deck, eliminate the targets there. Double-taps through the mouth. Go through the ship, clearing it, double-taps the whole way through. Price will take a look at your accuracy and knock off time for every decent hit you land. Understand?"  
"Yeah…" Soap pulled his respirator down over his face, and tightened the rubber straps across the back of his head. He pulled the stock of the MP-5 into his shoulder, before letting it loose over his chest.

"You ready?" the kindly operator patted Soap on the shoulder as he nodded. "Alright lad. Standy. Standby. GO GO GO!"

XXX

Soap leapt forward, and grabbed the rope, his thin gloves protesting at the burns the thick rope was causing, but Soap resisted. The rope was only eight metres at most, and he was in the air for less than two seconds. One the count of two, his Converse boots hit the wooden deck of the ship with a hollow thud, resonating around the entire mock-up. He gripped his weapon, and swiftly brought it up into his shoulder. As he turned, three paper targets popped up. Taking a small breath, he stepped forward, flicking the MP-5 to fully automatic, and tapping the trigger gently. Two rounds leapt from the short barrel of the weapon, and spiralled towards their target. He didn't stop to check if he'd hit or not, moving onto the next two targets, and firing at them in a similar.

"Position two, go!" Price's voice echoed as he yelled into the intercom. Soap ran, weapon still in shoulder, to the entrance of the "bridge" of the "ship". Seconds later, he was inside, and heading down a set of wooden steps. A target popped up at the bottom of the staircase, and he dropped it quickly with another round. As he was coming to the door to his left at the bottom of the stairs, he wrenched a flashbang from his vest, quickly pulled the pin, and slung it around the corner, immediately grabbing his MP-5 again. The grenade detonated, and Soap stormed through the door across the corridor from the stairs, and into the room. Two targets popped up at extremely close quarters. Soap shot one, and, purely by reflex, slammed out a Nomex clad fist at the second target, punching it right in the face, before then putting another round into it, through the mouth. "Position three! Flashbang through the door!" Soap turned on the spot, and sent another flashbang ahead of him, stacking up behind the wood. The distraction device exploded, and he pressed on, his torch flickering around the unlit room. Two targets popped up as he stepped inside, presumably to represent enemies coming into the room after the grenade had detonated. His finger brushed lightly against the trigger four times, putting double-taps into each target swiftly.

"Position four! Flashbang through the door!" the young trooper nodded, and hurled his last stun grenade away from him and around the corner. He heard it explode, and headed around the corner. Two X-Rays. Tap tap. Tap tap. The targets dropped to the floor, rips in the paper and bullet holes in the back of the walls.

"CLEAR!" Soap yelled as he exited the room.

"Position five! Go! Sprint to the finish!" Soap nodded, and took off out of the exit, following the arrows along the floor to the finish line. A chalk "X" was scrawled on the floor, and his Converse boots thumped lightly along the concrete as he ran, ragged breathing resonating through his respirator. "Time!" Price called out as Soap crossed the finishing line. The Trooper was bent over double, and breathing heavily, trying to suck in air through the mask, before wrenching it from his head, and inhaling the sweet cold air of the outside world.

XXX

"You'll get used to it…" Gaz, now sans helmet and respirator, patted him on the shoulder. "We'll see how you did in a second, alright mate?"  
"Yeah…" Soap breathed in deeply, before standing up straight, and slinging his MP-5. He watched as Price headed around the back of the structure, and went in through the exit. He seemed to take an age, inspecting each target, and carefully scribbling in his notebook as he walked through. "So what's this about a Cargo ship?"  
"Price will give us the O-Group tonight, mate. Should be a laugh, from what I've heard it seems like a bit of a doss."

"Right…"

"So where you from mate?" Gaz bit his bottom lip, before looking down at his slightly shorter team mate. "C'mon then, where?"  
"Oh, eerm…place called Oswestry, mate."  
"I didn't mean that, you mong." Gaz punched him playfully on the shoulder. "What reg you from? Para?" Soap shook his head. He was Para trained, having served for a time with 7 Royal Horse Artillery, but, to begin with, he had started out not even in a proper teeth arm.

Soap had joined the army at the age of sixteen, with a handful of GCSE's, though there had been very little choice in the matter. Having been convicted of Grand Theft Auto and shoplifting on several counts, and with an impending prison sentence, he had had no choice but to join the army as a Trooper in the Royal Logistics Corps, something that had bored him horribly.

"I was RLC for a time, but I got into Two-Nine Commando when I was seventeen, and Seven RHA when I was twenty-three…and now I'm here."

"That's quite a leap." Gaz commented. "Royal Logistics Corps to The Regiment."

"Had a weekend free." Soap shrugged, as Price came back around the corner, a grave look on his face.

"What's the score? Gaz raised an eyebrow, as Price walked by them.

"You're not gonna like it." The officer held out his notepad, and Gaz read it over quickly.

"Oh, you're taking the piss!" he exclaimed, dropping his helmet to the floor. "Seventeen seconds? Bullshit!"

"Well, Trooper Mactavish." Price grinned. "Looks like you're in. Come on over to the monitors and we'll debrief."

Soap and Gaz followed Price to the screens that were placed on a table in one corner of the hanger, where three other men were waiting.

"Soap, I think it's time you were introduced properly. I'm Captain Price, and this is Bravo Section, B Squadron." He gestured at the other soldiers. "Sergeant Wallcroft, Lance Corporal Griffin, and Trooper Stuart. Lads, this is Trooper McTavish. Or Soap."

"Y'alright-laa?" Stuart smiled, and outstretched his hand. "You're gonna be my oppo, if that's alright with you."

"Erm…yeah. Sure." Soap shook the Mancunian's hand. The other two operators were less forthcoming.

"Training exercises is one thing, but fuck up in the real world, and you're dead." Wallcroft kept a serious, steely glare at the newcomer. "So don't fuck up."

"When you're finished…" Price leant back against the table, his arms folded.

"Yes Boss. Sorry." Wallcroft turned, and watched as Price stood up straight again.

"Cheers. Right lads, the cargo ship mission is a go. Wheels up at 0200. Pack light, the op should take fifteen minutes maximum. I'll brief you all later."

XXX

_This the first story I've had time to write in a while, and those of you who have read my other stuff will know I like to go back and improve, constantly (Much to a certain fellow RE writer's chagrin, I would imagine). However, I hope you will enjoy this. Having no experience with the US Army, let alone the USMC, my writing of the Special Air Service will probably be a lot more accurate, so if anyone would offer to help me write as the USMC, that would be fantastic. _

_In other areas, I do realise that Soap is a Sergeant in the game. However, in the real SAS, NCO's are demoted prior to their entrance into the Regiment, so that they may learn from the ground up. Gaz' rank is never revealed in game, but is likely, as the second-in-command of Bravo team, he is a Staff-Sergeant. _


	2. Prologue: Crew Expendable

Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare

Chapter 0

Crew Expendable

_Bravo Team, the intel from this op comes directly from our informant in Russia. The package is aboard a medium freighter. Estonian Registration number 52775. There is a small crew and a security detail on board.  
_

**Rules of engagment, sah?**

_Crew Expendable..._

XXXX

The rain lashed horrifically against the helicopter, and the pilot struggled to keep it level against the wind. It was only Soap's second time in a helicopter, and he was still a little nervous sitting next to the open cargo doorway, with the water flicking against him. Luckily, the black "frizz" suit he was wearing was both waterproof and fireproof. This also made it incredibly warm, which was good for the moment as he sat in the cold Russian air, but would get very uncomfortable as he began to move more.

He checked his kit one last time. The suppressed MP-5 slung tight across his chest remained still as he moved, and the Sig in the MOLLE holster on his thigh was cocked, hammer back, ready to fire in a moment's notice. He had four magazines strapped to his thigh, with another clamped to the one that was already loaded into the MP-5. He tightened his assault vest over his body armour.  
"I have eyeball on the target." The pilot of the Blackhawk said. Price nodded, and took another drag from his fine Cuban cigar, inhaling deeply, before allowing the smoke to escape. The smell entered Soap's nostrils, and he breathed it in, relishing the smell. Price looked at him, and smiled.  
"You want one?" He opened a pouch on his webbing, and withdrew another cigar, offering it out towards Soap. The FNG looked at it for a moment. He didn't smoke, but to refuse it could be rude. He swallowed, and outstretched his hand.

"Yeah, thanks Boss."

"You're welcome. Just be sure to smoke it properly, OK?" Soap nodded, and looked out of the side of the bird, as lighting forked across the sky, illuminating the ship that lay below them. The Blackhawk quickly doused its powerful searchbeams, going dark. The sound of the waves and the thunder hid the sound of the helicopter as it flared slightly, pulling into position at the stern of the ship. Soap looked out beneath him. Bravo team had about a ten-square metre space in which to rope into. Price had obviously seen the same thing, and not liked the plan, especially in this weather.

"Stuart, Soap, you're on me, we're going first. Rest of you, stay till I say." He checked the suppressed Diemaco on his chest, and removed the dust cover from the red-dot optics mounted atop the ACOG scope that was bolted to the Picatinny rail on the upper receiver. Soap quickly pushed out the rope that they were going to rope down with, and it uncoiled quickly as it fell, landing with a wet slap onto the saturated steel floor. Price pulled his respirator down over his face, and fitted it quickly. Soap followed suit, before pulling up the hood on his frizz suit, tightening it around the protective headgear. Most of them had decided to leave their Kevlar helmets behind, except for Gaz and Wallcroft, both of them Method of Entry soldiers, and thus, the first men into the room. The helmet was worn not so much to protect from a bullet, but more so that if someone tried to beat them over the head with an iron bar, they'd be OK.

XXXX

"Alright, let's get ready. Standby…" Price twisted himself around, and grabbed hold of the rope, his thick fast-roping gloves tightly on his hands. "Go." Seconds later, he was gone. Soap slammed the bolt on his MP-5 down, bringing the first round into the chamber, before following Price, sliding down the slick rope. As soon as his boots hit the ground, he frantically pulled off his fast-roping gloves, revealing the black Anson ones underneath. His right hand snatched the pistol-grip of his suppressed weapon, while the right one unclipped the issued three-point sling, giving Soap more movement with the weapon. He brought it up into his shoulder, and narrowed his eyes through his respirator, zeroing in through the porthole, into the bridge. His thumb twitched, and the safety catch on his MP-5 was quickly placed to fully-automatic. He looked to his right, to see Price stood with his Diemaco in his shoulder, water pouring down the back of his balding head. To his left, Stuart was present, his own MP-5 in his shoulder.

"Weapons free." Price murmured, and a flurry of suppressed rounds smashed through the glass, thudding into their targets. Yelps and screams emanated from their targets, and a frenzy of "X-Ray Down's" chattered through Soap's earpiece. They held position for a couple of seconds, before Price nodded, slung his Diemaco, and moved quickly over to the sealed door. "Stack up." He murmured, and Soap and Stuart did just that, moving to the left edge of the doorway, as Price hurriedly unscrewed the valve in the centre of the steel door. Soap did a mental count of ammunition he had expended, and judged he had about two-thirds of his magazine left. He used the few seconds spare to extend the stock on his weapon, so that it would seat better in his shoulder. "You both good for ammunition?"

"Yeah."

"Aye."

"Alright then." Price felt the valve twist as far as it would go, before bracing himself. "On my mark…go." He pulled backwards on the valve, leaning back to add extra weight. The door slung open, and Stuart quickly stepped inside, taking up position on the left hand side of the doorway. Soap headed right, and the pair of them scanned the room quickly, before Soap snatched his pressel, speaking into his throat-mic.

"Three times X-Rays down in Objective Alpha. Moving on to Objective Bravo."

"Roger that." The pilot of the helicopter replied. Soap waited as Captain Price readied his Diemaco again, and followed them inside.

"Gaz, stay in the bird till we've cleared the upper decks. We'll give you the shout when we want you in, alright?"

"Roger that, Six." Gaz, callsigned Bravo Five, replied. He sounded calm, but Soap knew enough about the Staff-Sergeant to know that he was probably itching to get down that rope and onto the ship.

"Alright, down the stairs, we'll continue onto Objective Bravo."

XXXX

Alpha had been the bridge, where they had roped down onto first, and cleared. Bravo was an area on the upper decks where there were no cargo containers located, but several adjacent, providing decent cover. Soap was half reminded of a joint SAS/SBS operation taking place a few years ago, a lightning dawn raid on a tanker known as the _MV Nisha_. The ship had been pinpointed by a CIA analyst, who noted that she had changed course quite dramatically, was thought to have been taken over by Al-Qaeda, who would in turn intend to detonate some form of WMD in the centre of London. Soap shuddered at the very thought.

He followed Price and Stuart down the stairs, with Price pausing at the bottom to scan the corridor. Soap could hear slurred speech and singing coming from a doorway down the hall, and a moment later, an unkempt man staggered through, bottle of Vodka in one hand. That didn't scare the Operators much though, and they would've simply knocked him out had he not been carrying a Makarov pistol in his right hand. He was carrying a weapon, and therefore was a threat. In a fashion akin to how the SAS were meant to have killed terrorists during the Iranian Embassy Siege, all three men opened up at the same time by reflex, peppering the man with bullets, shattering his vodka bottle, and dropping him to the floor. Blood pooled around him as he hit the ground.

"X-Ray down." Each man called out, and they looked at eachother, a brief moment of humour on each of their faces behind their respirators.

"Let's go. Gaz, standby."

"Boss." Gaz replied. As they moved down the corridor, Stuart headed off to the right, entering another cabin. As they continued on, he heard two short, sharp, suppressed rounds. Soap frowned, and looked behind him, as Stuart reappeared.

"What just happened there?"

"Two bad boys asleep in the room."

"So you put them down?" Soap frowned incredulously. "But they were-"

"Hostiles?" Price replied, as he stood by the door. "Crackheads? Alkies? Bastards with guns? Doesn't matter, Soap. They're on board our target, and we've already seen the armed cunts that are hanging around here. If they're in the way, they could wake up and hit us later. Best to slot them now while it's easy."

Soap wasn't completely satisfied, but he didn't argue, just forming back up in position, and getting ready to move on. He checked his magazine, and quickly swapped it over with the one clamped next to it. He was the new guy, and wasn't about to start arguing with people who had been in much longer than he had. Captain Price had been in the Regiment for nearly twenty years, and even Stuart, the other new guy, had been around for a few months. This was Soap's first mission, the first time he had killed anyone up close and personal. Sure, he had called in airstrikes and artillery support in the past, which had probably led to the deaths of some Terry Taliban somewhere, but he had never fired a shot in anger. And in the past ninety seconds, he had killed two people.

He felt hollow inside. He wasn't pleased with what he had done, but he wasn't angry either. Price's words rang true, in a sense. They were the bad guys. The SAS didn't get where they were by playing tea and sympathy and pandering to the needs of the bad guys. They were there because they trained hard, and they fought easy. And because they were the roughest, toughest, hardest motherfuckers in the business.

XXXX

Bravo's Six, Two and Three headed outside, back into the storm. A fork of lightning screamed across the sky, and Soap looked up at for a second. He leapt over the edge of some railings that lay in front of him, and dropped the three metres or so to the deck beneath him.

"Gaz, we're ready for you now."

"Roger that. Bravo's Five, Four and One coming in. Take us down there, Hammer."

"On it." Soap looked up as the Blackhawk flew over, another rope quickly falling down to the deck. The Trooper looked up to see Gaz's feet falling towards him, followed swiftly by Wallcroft and Griffin. The three moved swiftly into cover. Gaz was carrying a Diemaco, similar to Captain Price, and the others held MP-5's.

"What now, Bossman?"

"Fan out, three metre spread. Keep moving till we hit the other side, then we'll work out something from there depending on how long we've got left. Gaz, time?"

"Three minutes elapsed." Gaz quickly checked his Suunto digital watch, before moving into his position in the extended line, next to Price. This would give them two fireteams if they came under contact, a way in which they could pepperpot effectively in case they came under fire. Soap scanned his arcs as they moved out, the gaps between them increasing and decreasing as they came to obstacles, before trying to keep the distances roughly even as they manoeuvred around.

"I have contact." Gaz's voice murmured through the net. "Two X-Rays on the catwalk up ahead."

"Weapons free." Price and Gaz raised their Diemaco's, using the more powerful optics to zero in on the two bad guys. Two shots were fired, accompanied by a muffled scream, as one man fell over the railings onto the floor beneath. "X-ray down."

"X-Ray down."

Moving through a shipping crate, Soap quickly checked both sides as he reached the exit. He stepped outside into the wet again. Moments later, bullets ricocheted from the steel flooring in front of him.

"SHIT!" he yelled out, and sprinted into cover as fast as he could. He watched Price return fire, before taking cover himself.

"What've we got, lads?" The officer's voice asked, seconds later.

"I have eyes on six times X-Rays, armed with AK-47's and G3's." Soap looked up out of cover, and ducked back in again. "Elevated position. Gonna be hard to hit from here, Boss."

"I hear you. Can you lob a grenade in?"

"I'll give it a shot." Soap ducked down, and listened for a moment to the exchange between the Diemaco's and the AK's. He pulled out one of the grenades from his pouches, withdrew the pin, and tossed it at the portholes above him. It sailed through the air, smashed through the glass, and into the corridor above. "It's in."

The explosion sent flames flying through the portholes, and for a moment, everything was silent, save for the howling of the wind and crash of the waves. The gunfire started again quickly, however, and once more Bravo Team was pinned down by heavy and accurate small-arms fire.

"Bollocks to the softly softly approach." Price whispered. "Hammer-Two-Four, we have Tango's on the second floor."

"On it, Bravo Six. Engaging." Soap looked up as a powerful beam of light cast a huge shadow of him against the crate he was hiding behind. The Blackhawk hovered carefully in front of the position to its left, and Soap silently praised the pilot for his daring to do such a move, placing the helicopter in direct enemy fire, and his ability to keep it steady in the storm. A loud grinding signified the spooling of an M197 Minigun, and Soap watched in awe as the massive weapon sprayed hundreds of rounds onto its target, shattering glass and punching holes in metal as well as flesh and bone. After a fifteen second burst, the helicopter ceased its attack, before hovering away.

"Bravo Six, this is Hammer-Two-Four, we are at Bingo fuel. Big Bird will be on station for evac in ten."

"Roger that Hammer. We'll be ready."

XXXX

Price ejected the magazine on his Diemaco, and quickly replaced it with a spare, leaving him with seven. He moved up a few steps, and analysed his surroundings, before then dashing to a doorway, similar to the one he had opened a few minutes ago.

"Soap, Stuart, Gaz, you're on me. Wallcroft, Griffin, stay up here and secure the place for our exfil."

"Roger that." Soap followed Price, who was once again slinging his Diemaco in preparation to open the door. Soap turned, and covered their six, as Stuart and Gaz caught up quickly. Gaz eyed the door, and quickly let go of his Diemaco, and grabbing his Remington 870 from his back. The Assault rifle was collapsed as much as possible to keep it compact, and he pumped the shotgun, shouldering it, and aiming it directly ahead at the centre of the door.

"I like to keep this for close encounters…" he commented. Soap smiled, and nodded in approval.

"Too right mate." Stuart patted Gaz on the shoulder as they prepared to move in again. Price unscrewed the door, and prepared to pull it open again.

"On my mark…go." He leant backwards, and the door swung open heavily. Gaz stormed through, his shotgun readied. Soap was next, with Stuart third, and then Price, his Diemaco back in his hands. "Check those corners." Price ordered, and Gaz and Soap obliged immediately, sweeping through, clearing each route methodically.

"Clear."

"Clear."

"Downstairs. Squad on me."

They piled down the stairs, with Stuart moving ahead to the other side of set of railings as they went.

"Movement right." He indicated with his left hand, pointing down the corridor, before a moment later a burst of Uzi fire went spraying towards him. "Shit, contact."

"Grenade." Price sent an M67 flying down the corridor, landing in the middle. The enemies scattered as the fragmentation device detonated, sending a shower of sparks and shrapnel throughout the confined space. Gaz sprinted into the smoke, and when it cleared, Soap and Stuart were greeted to the sight of a plasticuffed X-Ray, struggling on the ground, trying to escape. He stopped when Gaz shoved the barrel of his shotgun onto the back of his skull.

"Give me a reason."

He remained still until Price, Soap, and Stuart had passed by.

"Clear left."

"Clear right."

"Stack up. On my mark." Price nodded at a doorway up ahead. Gaz was first, followed by Soap, then Stuart, with Price stood to one side with a flashbang in his hand. He lobbed it through the door, and waited a second, before heading in. The grenade detonated a moment later, but Price did not seem phased by the explosion. He merely levelled his Diemaco, and squeezed off a double-tap, sending his target falling headfirst over some railings and onto the floor of the cargo hold below. "Soap, you're lead man. Take us through."

"Roger that." Soap levelled his MP-5 and took his place at the head of the group, moving down the staircase. He didn't need to check that Gaz and Stuart were behind him; they would be near at all times. His oppo's. His allies. His mates.

XXXX

He moved silently across the cargo hold, his eyes narrowed. Pulling himself up onto a raised section, he twisted the sling of his MP-5 around his arm, keeping it tight and out of the way. Up ahead, he could hear the sound another X-ray breathing heavily, before a metallic noise, signifying the cocking of a weapon. Soap raised his hand to his ear, the silent hand signal for "stop". He then raised a single finger, and pointed at the edge of the shipping crate. He heard Gaz, Price and Stuart press themselves up against the side of the metal container. Soap took another step forward. His finger curled around the trigger of his weapon, hearing it click once. A little more pressure, and the trigger would click again, this time sending a precise round through the head of his target, which is exactly what happened.

The man stepped out from behind his cover, screaming at the top of his voice, a terrified look on his face. In his hand he held a chrome desert eagle pistol. Before he could fire, Soap had done so first, and the nine-millimetre round slapped him right between the eyes, drilling a neat hole there. The man fell forwards onto his knees, the pistol still clasped firmly in his hand, the frightened expression screwed into his face forevermore.

"Cold bastard…" Price murmured, stepping in front of Soap, and taking the point. "Gaz, left side, up the catwalks."

"On it." The four men scuttled back across the cargo hold, and back up to the catwalks above.

"Movement right." Gaz informed the team, and Soap looked over to his right. Sure enough, on the catwalk opposite, were a group of X-Rays, spreading themselves out across the catwalks, making ready their weapons, and forcing them into their shoulders. Soap's first instinct was to duck down, get behind whatever cover he could find, and then return fire as and when he could. Looking around him, however, he could see this was not the case.

Price, Gaz and Stuart were standing tall and strong, weapons in their shoulders, and sidestepping carefully to their left. Each man had flicked to semi-automatic, and was firing slowly and accurately, making each shot count. Price didn't even stop when he was out of ammunition, simply ejecting the magazine, replacing it, sending the bolt home, and resuming firing. By the time they had crossed over from one side to the other, all seven of the bad guys were dead, with not a scratch on the remainder of Bravo Team.

XXXX

At the end of the catwalk, Price led the way back down.

"Gaz, right side."

"Got it." Gaz and Stuart stacked up on the right side of the doorway at the end of the cargohold, and Soap knew from the blueprints they had studied earlier that this was as deep into the bowels of the ship as they were going to get. Whatever they were looking for, they would find it here, if indeed there was anything to find. Soap and Price were on the left hand side of the door.

"On my mark." Price and Gaz withdrew their last flashbangs, and snapped out the pins, holding them tightly in their hands. They looked at eachother for a second, and Gaz nodded. "Go." At the same time, both men flung their stun grenades into the room.

Price was in first. He raised his Diemaco and fired, hitting one target in the chin, before dropping into cover. Gaz leapt over some railings into the centre of the cargohold, and launched a single shotgun blast into the chest of his nearest foe. The man twirled oddly in the air, before dropping down. Soap and Stuart followed, both going right once they had made it through.

"Mission time?!" Gaz yelled.

"Twelve! We got three!"

"Roger that!" Soap double-tapped a nearby enemy, and quickly advanced towards the next one.

As Soap aimed his MP-5, the X-Ray did the same with his AK-47. At the exact same time, both weapons jammed, with a horrifying click. The two combatants stared at eachother, but Soap regained his composure fastest, and scrabbled for his pistol. He grabbed it, brought it up into his hands, and fired three rounds; two to the chest, and one to the head.

XXXX

"CLEAR!" Gaz yelled. Soap lowered his pistol, and narrowed his eyes.

"Anyone got anything?"

"Nothing." Stuart lowered his MP-5.

"OK. Ammunition check. Six mags, OK."

"SIR!" Gaz yelled out. Soap and Stuart turned away from checking their magazines, and looked at their 2/ic. "Listen." He fumbled into the ressie pouch over his body, and withdrew a Geiger counter. It clicked heavily as radiation particles hit it, increasing as he held it towards one of the massive shipping crates, lying at the end of the cargo bay. "You might wanna come take a look at this." He passed the device over to Soap, before taking hold of the of the doors, and forcing it open.

"Jesus…"

"Fuck me!"

"It's in Arabic."

Inside was a sealed lead container, draped in a Saudi Arabian flag. It was not the flag that worried them, however. More, the black and yellow symbol that was stamped on top of the container.

Nuclear.

"Jesus fucking Christ! The Ultranationalists are shipping warheads?"  
"Calm the fuck down! Baseplate, this is Bravo Six. We have the package, but its bigger than we thought. Prepare to pick it up, over."

"Negative, Bravo Six, we have bogeys inbound to your location, and we cannot remain any longer. Get back topside and we'll pick you up."

"Fast movers. Probably MiG's." Gaz interjected

"Fine." Price released his mic, and turned. "Soap, grab the manifest."

"Right." Mactavish stepped gingerly inside the shipping crate, and snatched up the clipboard. "Hey, it says something about-"  
"No time! C'mon, let's go!" Gaz grabbed him, and pushed him out of the crate. The four men sprinted back the way they had came.

"Wallcroft, Griffin, what's your status?!"  
"Already in the helicopter sir! Migs imbound…SHIT!"

Next thing Soap knew, he was on the floor, sliding back towards the wall. He hit another shipping crate hard, and felt something break on his back. He hoped to God it was his radio.

"SHIT! What the hell happened?!" Gaz yelled out. His question was answered as a blazing inferno swept towards them, illuminating the hold in an orange fury.

"The ship's been hit! C'mon, we've gotta get the hell out of here!"

"What about Soap?" Soap opened his eyes, to see Price stood over him, his respirator strapped on top of his head.

"He's hyperventilating! Quick! Get that mask off him!" The newbie felt the S10 wrenched from his face, and he breathed in fresh, cold air, and also the smell of smoke and fumes. "C'mon! ON YOUR FEET, SOLDIER! WE! ARE! LEAVING!"

XXXX

Soap grabbed Price's hand, and was wrenched to his feet. He took a second to orientate himself, before finding his bearings, and taking off after the rest of them. He scrabbled up a set of steps and back onto a catwalk against the wall, a wall which was fast becoming the ceiling.

"COME ON!" Stuart yelled. "MIND THE CATWALKS! MOVE!" water burst through the pipes above them, and Soap had to struggle to stay on his feet. He scurried after his teammates, back the way they came, through the red-lit corridor, up into the stairs, and back to the upper levels again. "WHICH WAY?!" Stuart cried out, not a reassuring thought, as he was leading the group.

"To the right, to the right!" Price cried out, and Stuart followed the directions back outside.

Soap stumbled on the water for a second, before regaining his footing. When he looked up, he could see that the rest of Bravo team were at least ten metres ahead of him, and his heart leapt even further into his mouth.

"Wait! Wait up!" He screamed as they piled into the back of the Seaknight. It began moving away from the ship just as he reached the edge of the deck.

"JUMP FOR IT!" Stuart yelled, and Soap did exactly that. He leapt through the air, screaming at the top of his voice, all too aware of the icy depths beneath him. His torso slammed into the still open ramp of the helicopter, and he scratched the soaked floor of the heli, trying to get a decent grip.

"FUCK! I'm slipping! I'm Slipping, FUCK, HELP ME!" Price darted forward, and grabbed his hand.

"Gotcha!" he grinned, and pulled the Trooper up into the aircraft, and sitting him down in the seat nearest the edge. Soap was still breathing heavily, and could not quite believe that he had made it into the helicopter; he'd no idea he could jump that far.

Price walked to the end of the cargo bay, where the rest of Bravo team was sitting. Gaz, Wallcroft, Griffin and Stuart looked up at him, most with a single raised eyebrow.

"So what do we think, lads?" the CO asked, as he cleared his Diemaco. Gaz looked at Wallcroft, and Griffin looked at Stuart.  
"Lad's got bollocks."

"Fucking good shot."

"Can do what he's told."

"Well?" Price demanded. Gaz looked up as he dropped his Kevlar helmet to the floor. He looked over at Soap, then back at Price, before grinning.

"He's in."


	3. Act 1: Introduction

Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare

Chaper 0.5

Into Russia

XXXX

**Boss, Al-Asad just executed President Al-Fulani live on national television.**

_It's too late to do anything for Al-Fulani now, but in three hours codename Nikolai will be executed in Northern Russia._

**Nikolai, sir?**

_Nikolai is our agent in the Ultranationalist camp. He supplied the intel on the cargoship Operation. Nikolai's going through hell right now, and we're gonna walk him out. We take care of our own._

XXXX

Soap's suspicions had been raised the moment Captain Price had begun the briefing with only him and Gaz in the room. His pre-conceptions of the SAS had been that they would go in big numbers, at least six or seven, but Price had cheerfully informed him that there would be no need for such amounts of troops, and three men would be perfectly acceptable for the job in hand.

"Soap, you picked out all your green kit yet?" Price asked as a projector flickered on behind him. The new SAS Cap Badge spun behind him, outlined in blue on a black background. Soap liked the new, modern design. It retained everything the old one had, while bringing the Regiment up-to-date into the new Millennium. "I know you only had time to get fitted for your CRW stuff."

"Yes boss." Soap nodded. He was wearing his DPM trousers and Lowa combat boots, with a black fleece over a similarly coloured T-Shirt. Back in the barracks, he had just finished rigging all the pouches to his new plate carrier, a fancy set of body armour designed by company "Weesatch". It integrated the armour plates and equipment pouches almost perfectly, though it made lying down a bit difficult. In his opinion though, Soap saw it as a massive improvement over belt-kit webbing and Osprey body armour.

"Good man. You'll be needing it soon enough." Price turned, and nodded at the screen behind him. A satellite map of the world appeared, before focusing on a position in Russia. Soap watched with interest, leaning back.

XXXX

"Right. Just before we hit the cargo ship, Green Slime learned that one of our agents, a man named Nikolai, was discovered by members of the Ultranationalist Party. In a few hours, he will be executed, at dawn. He's done us lots of favours over time, so we're going to insert into Russia as soon as this briefing is over, and exfil him." He flicked to the next slide, this one labelled "Situation".

"Situation is thus. Ultranationalist Rebels are clashing with Government Loyalists, and Russia is in a state of turmoil at the moment, which means they shouldn't be too picky about us getting in there and moving in. As you're well aware, the situation in Saudi Arabia has taken a very nasty turn as well. We're uncertain if these two events are related, but in twelve hours, Coalition Troops will begin their invasion of the country, consisting of US, German, and British forces. HMS Invincible is already on station in the Persian Gulf with elements of Three Commando Brigade, and the Shakyboat Squadron, so expect no 1st SFSG Support." Soap nodded. The Shakyboat Squadron was the SAS' nickname for the Special Boat Service, their Naval counterparts. 1st SFSG was the newly formed Special Forces Support Group, consisting of the 1st Parachute Battalion. "Friendly Forces in Russia include Spetsnaz forces, led by our good mate-"  
"Kamarov." Gaz interrupted, a serious look on his face. "Is there no-one else available instead of that conceited bastard, sir?"

"Unfortunately not. I had asked for Lieutenant Xanthos, but she was unavailable." Price gave Gaz a sympathetic look. "After Beirut he owes us big time though."

"Beirut?" Soap asked.

"During the crisis in the Lebanon we were dispatched to ensure that all British nationals were able to get safely evacuated. Kamarov was doing the same thing for the Russians, and his patrol came under contact from Hezbollah forces. We pulled his arse out of the fire in that one, so he better do us some favours."

"Right. I'm with you." Soap made a quick note in his notepad. "Anyone else?"

"Yes. Task Force Excalibur has agreed to lend a hand, though Delta and SEAL's will be deployed to the Middle East. The US Government has agreed to lend us Hammer-Two-Four and Big Bird again, with more support if it becomes available at the time."

"What sort of support, sir?"

"No idea, Staff. They wouldn't say." Price shrugged. "Moving on. Enemy forces. We know for a fact that there at least sixty enemy infantry in the area, armed with multiple small-arms and RPG's. Satellite imagery confirms the presence of BM21 rocket's in the area, along with snipers, so keep your eyes peeled. Soap, you're going to be our sniper on this one, so make sure you take your rifle."

"Yes sir."

"Mission outline. We will be dropped by Big Bird at this location, before moving in on foot towards the target area, approximately six miles from the DZ. We will RV with Sergeant Kamarov in this field, before moving on to the village. We will make our way to the target house once Kamarov has informed us where it is, and extract Nikolai, before moving him to Hammer-Two-Four one hundred metres away from the building. Back in time for tea. Any questions?" Soap and Gaz looked at eachother. Neither wanted to be the first to ask a question. Price watched them in amusement, before smiling. "Alright then lads. Gear up. Let's go."


	4. Act 1: Blackout

Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare

Chapter 1

Blackout

XXXX

Soap knelt down, levelling his Diemaco, and aiming straight ahead. He glanced down at his hand, checking his Suunto. They had forty-seven minutes before the deadline, and they were making good progress. They'd tabbed the six miles cross-country in record time, though they were travelling light, and with very little gear other than their personal kit. Soap's feet were comfy and warm in his new boots, and the Lifa shirt he wore underneath his fleece helped to wick away at any perspiration.

He scanned the area across the river, quickly taking in the surroundings. Up ahead he could hear noise, the sounds of rockets firing into the distance, and a quick glance towards the sky told him they were heading away from the way he had come. He heard screams as well, those of the children, the women and the men, accompanied by automatic gunfire and explosions. His finger curled around the trigger of his Diemaco, before Price tapped him on the shoulder.

"Can't save everyone, lad." He whispered, patting the top of his head, which was covered in a green US issue boonie hat, with the back flicked up. His Bowman headset sat comfortably on his right ear, and his moustache curled slightly as he gave a faint, comforting smile for their newly inducted teammate. "Alright Gaz, back on me for some QBO's."

XXXX

QBO's stood for Quick Battle Orders, meaning that Price was going to give them a quick rundown of what was going to happen now that they were on station and could see the situation for themselves, and they could adapt accordingly. After a few seconds, there was a slight rustling in the hedges, and Gaz emerged, cradling his rifle in his hands, before settling down next to them.

"See anything?"  
"No boss. But there sounds like there's one hell of a party going on down there."

"Then perhaps we'd best start gatecrashing." Price got to his feet, and pointed downriver. Soap was instantly dismayed. His Lowa boots were lined with Goretex, so his feet and socks would be soaked for the remainder of the mission. He was glad he had packed his grab-bag and left it on Hammer-Two-Four, for contained within were a pair of Dryzone bags, which would hopefully dry out the Goretex lining quickly. "Soap, you ready to use that rifle of yours?" Mactavish patted the drag-bag on his back, which contained the suppressed L115A1 that he would use to eliminate targets at distance.

"Yeah, it's set to go. Just gimme the word."

"Will do. Kamarov and his men will be meeting us in the field to the North." Gaz sighed, and narrowed his eyes.

"Loyalists, huh? Now, are those the good Russians or the bad Russians?" Price grinned at him, turned, and waded into the river, till he was up to his waist, and began patrolling downstream, weapon in his shoulder, scanning the front arc.

"Well, they won't shoot us on sight, if that's what you mean, Gaz." Soap and Gaz hurried after him, with Gaz taking up the middle, and Soap forming their rearguard.

"Yeah, well, that's good enough for me sir."

XXXX

The water was freezing, though that was unsurprising. Soap shivered, and bit his lip to stop his teeth from chattering. The cold bit at his ears, and he quickly pulled his Thinsulate watch cap down over them a bit further to try and fight off the cold. Gaz was wearing a Baseball cap, which had been a present from Prince Harry when Gaz had provided protection when the young royal was out in Afghanistan, fighting with the household cavalry. Gaz had taken off the US flag, and replaced it with a Union Jack. Soap smirked as he read the writing on the back of the cap for the thousandth time; We do Bad Things to Bad People. The writing could not have been more apt if it tried.

Though their weapons were similar, each carried different personal equipment. Soap and Price were wearing the same plate carrier, with ten magazines and five grenade pouches strapped to the MOLLE loops in front. The vest's magazine pouches were integrated to the vest itself, making it quite bulky on the front when all the gear was placed there, but they worked around that as best they could. The various other MOLLE loops were filled with equipment, from Cyalume glowsticks, and surgical forceps to the cruel, seven-inch long commando knife that was fed through the loops over the right of Soap's chest.

Gaz had gone old-school, and was wearing a thick set of body armour with an assault vest designed by Arktis strapped over the top. While Soap and Price had elected to carry their issued water bottles in pouches on their vest, Gaz had chosen to wear a Camelbak hydration pack, with the tube cable-tied to the shoulder of the vest.

As they continued moving silently down the river, Soap looked up at the sky above him. The clouds were covering the moon, thankfully, though its gleaming white light managed to poke through holes occasionally. He kept his head down and followed on, his "long" forced into his shoulder, finger placed delicately on the trigger guard.

"Hold up." Price whispered over their headsets. He raised a hand, and then lowered it gently. As he did so, he sank deeper into the water, bending his knees, until all that was visible was the top of his head. Soap and Gaz followed quickly, and then proceeded along their chosen path. "I have contact. Two times X-rays in the hut. Two times patrolling outside." There was a pause as a truck drove lazily across a bridge to their right, slowing for a moment, and continuing on.

"We could try and avoid them." Soap suggested, his eye caught by the underside of the bridge.

"No, too risky. It'll be easier and quicker if we take them out. Safeties off." Soap nodded at Price, and let his thumb carefully force the fire selector up into the "semi" position. "Standby."

"Stoodby."  
"Ready."  
"Weapons free." Price ordered. Several dull thuds were heard, and the two guards that had been stood there dropped to the floor, one missing half his head, the other with a sucking chest wound.

XXXX

Bravo Team quickly moved out of the water, forming an all-around defence as they went. Price turned in to face the group. "Alright. Soap, go take out the bad guys in the hut. Gaz and I will keep lookout."

"Yes sir." Soap patted Gaz on the shoulder to let him know he was leaving. He hunched himself over, and peered down the length of his rifle. He made his way over to the edge of the hut, stacking up behind the door, and kneeling down. He twisted his Bowman mic out of the way for the moment, and listening intently. The news was on a television inside, CNN by the sounds of it.

"…and as Ultranationalist forces continue their press towards Moscow and the Kremlin, Government Loyalists hold firm against them. Meanwhile, in the Persian Gulf near Saudi Arabia, Coalition Forces continue their massing through naval power. As we can see from the pictures here, there are no fewer then twelve aircraft carriers from both British and American Navies, with aircraft on board being prepared…"

Soap did not listen to the rest. He leant around the corner, and made two precise shots, killing both of his targets. He put two more rounds into each of them, before stopping, and slinging his weapon for the moment.

"Two X-Rays down." He murmured into his Bowman, before stepping forward and switching off the television as it moved into another story about something uninteresting.

"Roger that. Get back out here and we'll carry on."

"Roger." He turned, and went back outside, just in time to see Gaz and Price continuing under the bridge ahead.

Once Soap had caught up, the three of them advanced further on, back into the water. "Bad guys up ahead." He whispered over the Bowman, before a shiver ran across his body. "Fuck me, it's cold."

"Don't be such a fucking baby, Soap. You'll be warm soon enough."

"Piss off, Staff."

"Shut it, pair of you. Extended line." Their single "duck formation" line broke, and Soap and Gaz took up position on the left and right of their team leader. They patrolled through the water, though it got shallower as they neared the bridge. Soap and Price went through the left hand arch, while Gaz moved alone through the right. They could see a few buildings up ahead, with laughter and other noise coming from inside the nearest one. They held position just inside the arches, and Gaz quickly made his way around to them.

Crouching in the water, Soap levelled his Diemaco straight ahead.

"Plan?" he asked, keeping close watch on the nearest building.

"Too many for us to take effectively by the sound of it." Price observed. "Gaz?"

"Soap, go claymore the nearest building, then get their attention. Me and the boss will deal with the far building."

"Have that." He outstretched his hands, and Gaz handed him a Claymore mine. "Be careful, newbie."

"Don't catch cold, old man." The Trooper grinned, and stuffed the Claymore into his thigh pocket.

XXXX

The Claymore mine was a terrifying piece of equipment. Essentially, it was a heap of explosive, packed with steel ball-bearings. It could be detonated by remote, or by tripwire, but in more modern years, it was more common to have it equipped with infra-red trips. Soap knew the damage he was about to cause, and the pain he was about to put the X-Rays through, and he didn't care a jot.

He patrolled forward, being as quiet as his boots would allow him, as they squelched quietly thanks to his soaked socks. As he got closer, he slung his Diemaco, and withdrew his P226 from the Safariland, and screwed a suppressor to the barrel. Holding the sidearm in one hand, and the claymore in the other, he advanced slowly towards the hut again. When he reached it, he gingerly moved up the small wooden ladder. He winced as the final step creaked loudly, and he stopped automatically, levelling the pistol at the door, and flicking off the safety.

"Come on, you bastards." He whispered. "It's rude to keep a girl waiting."

But they did not come. The sound of the radio inside, and their drunken escapades were obviously too loud for them to notice such a sound. Soap ducked underneath the window, and, placing his pistol down for a moment. He removed the pin from the Claymore, before placing it down on the wooden porch. He smirked at the instructions written on the front, reading "Face front towards enemy", before picking up the pistol again.

He peered around the edge of the window, and chose his target carefully. The one nearest the door would be best. He would take him out, and then the others would run out and hit the claymore. If he took out one near the back of the room, the claymore would detonate and probably only kill one man. He leant out so he was in plain few, and fired twice, the high-pitched "puff" of the pistol muffled almost completely by the TV. The round hit the rebel through the neck, and he dropped his dilapidated Skorpion machine-pistol to the floor, clutching at his throat. His friends yelled in Russian, and turned to face the window. Soap smirked at them, before ducking down, and sprinting off back down to the riverbank.

It worked like a charm. The Russians dashed out of the doorway, tripping the cone of infra-red beams projected from the claymore, and the explosive detonated, sending a hail of tiny steel spheres spreading in a massive arc across the area. The explosion itself tore off the first man's legs, with the ball-bearings tearing tiny holes in his body, puncturing his lungs and other vital organs. Soap levelled his pistol as the second man hit the ground, his AK-47 flying away from his hand as most of the digits on his left hand were torn from the palm, leaving a bloody, half-gloved stump. He screamed loudly, but was silenced moments later as Soap pulled the trigger twice, hitting him in the forehead and chin.

As Soap delivered his killing blow to the guards in the first huts, Price and Gaz had moved themselves into a position opposite the second building. Three men tried to get out of the door, but were cut down by a flurry of automatic fire from the Diemaco's.

"Two down."

"One down."

"Three down." Soap unscrewed the silencer from his weapon, and placed it back into the holster on his leg. He ejected the magazine from his own Diemaco, placing it in the map pocket on his trousers. He looped a finger through the pull fixed to the bottom of one of his remaining magazines, pulled it from the pouch on the front of his vest, before quickly loading it into place. Once he was done, he put the half-empty magazine back into place, but placed it a different way to his others so he would know which one not to go for first. He would load it up later.

XXXX

"Soap, back on me. We're nearly there now." Price's voice whispered through the radio.

"Coming now." Soap replied, before holding his Diemaco comfortably, and moving quickly back up the hill. He watched as the sun peeked over the horizon, and realised that they had very limited time to get their job done. He checked his watch again. Twenty-nine minutes until Nikolai bought it.

Soap RV'd just as Price opened the door to the house. He and Gaz swept through silently, clearing the corners of the rooms, before proceeding through. Soap looked around. It almost looked normal, except for the blood on the floor. Soap was almost sick when he saw a battered old teddy bear lying in the centre of a pool of blood, but he recomposed himself swiftly, and took in some deep breaths.

"Like I said." Soap turned around, to see Price stood behind him. He too looked at the bear in sadness, and then around at the pictures around the house. "We can't save everyone."

"I know, sir." Soap replied, walking over and looking at a photograph on the table. A picture of a family, happy. Soap swallowed.

"You alright?" Gaz asked, walking back into the room, and adjusting his baseball cap. "Can't afford to keep Nikolai waiting."

"I'm fine." Soap turned to them, a look of resolve plastered on his face. "Let's go."

"Good man."

XXXX

Price leant up against a door nearby, and pushed down the handle. He raised his Diemaco with his right hand, using his left hand to slowly open the door. He scanned the area with the weapon as he went through, until he was satisfied that the half-circle was clear of enemies. He stepped through, and knelt behind a white picket fence that was secured two metres away from the door. Soap took up position to the left of the fence, while Gaz covered the centre. The three of them scanned the field. Price flipped down the night-vision monocular that he wore underneath his hat. Levelling his Diemaco, he moved the laser-pointer from the PEQ-2 across the field.

"Anyone see anything?" he whispered. Soap shook his head. Gaz said nothing. Price nodded, and twisted the monocular away from his face again. "Stay sharp. Keep on the look out for anything in the long grass."

Bravo's Four, Five and Six steadily rose to their feet, and stepped over the picket fence. They spread out as wide as they could, with six metres between them as they swept forward in a horizontal line.

"Hold up." Price raised his hand to his ear. "Gaz, you smell that?" Soap took in a deep breath through his nostrils, and nearly gagged. The smell was disgusting, positively foul, like nothing he had ever smelt before. It was a like a mixture of old rifle oil, mixed with cigarette smoke, vodka and week-old urine. He took in a deep breath, wiping the water from his eyes, and kneeling down.

"Yeah." Gaz agreed, nodding, and slinging his weapon, folding his arms as he did so. "Kamarov."

"Fucking hell." Soap whispered as he and Gaz congregated around Price again. "Does he take bath's in his own piss or something?"

"He's a Spetsnaz. They're all smelly bast-"

He froze mid-sentence, and dropped to one knee, levelling his Diemaco at a shadowy figure approaching them from behind a hedge. Soap dropped into prone, and took aim, while Gaz turned and covered their six, ensuring that they would not get flanked.

"Psst." Price whispered, his eyes narrowed, his finger pulling the trigger on his weapon back to the first click. The figure halted, and adjusted his big, furry hat as he did so. "Six." Price murmured. A pause.

"Eleven." Came the reply, as the figure held up his weapon in the air with one hand. Price didn't relax. He may have answered the password correctly to make the total of seventeen, but that didn't mean anything. He could have gotten lucky.

"Advance one, and be recognised." As the figure drew into full view, the obvious tension in Price's body left him, and he stood up, letting his C8 hang slack.

XXXX

It was a tall, yet stockily built man, dressed in thick winter combat clothing of mostly grey. His combat gear was advanced, or at least well-made, as shown by the Safariland holster on his thigh which contained a Makarov pistol. His webbing was a dirty, battered old South-African Assault Vest, a real one, not the cheap viper clones. It was modified, with three buckles across the front of the vest rather than two, and the Camelbak pouch on the back removed, leaving only the straps across the back. Fixed to the top of the vest was a foam rollmat, probably for use in sniping. A traditional bearskin hat was perched atop his head, a metal Russian star clamped to the front of it, serving as a cap badge. In his hands he carried an AK-101 assault rifle, with a GP-30 grenade launcher mounted underneath. He was unshaven, and his brown eyes were wild and dangerous looking. The man commanded respect, much like Price did, though in a much less friendly manner. He approached them, bringing his rifle back into the ready position in his hands, before stopping, and smiling pleasantly at Price, yellowed teeth obvious even in the early-morning darkness.

"Welcome to the new Russia, Captain Price." He outstretched his woollen gloved hand, and shook Price's, before turning to Gaz. "You too, Staff-Sergeant Cullen."

"Nice to see you too mate." Gaz shook his hand. "How's it been?"

"It's been not so good, so far." Kamarov shook his head. "Ultranationalist forces are preying on civilians rather than actual military targets, so we have been hard-pressed to station troops in all areas of the country."

Kamarov seemed to notice Soap for the first time, and narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"Who's the kid?" He asked, looking over at Price.

"What did you say?" Soap felt his anger building up in him. He didn't like this Russian. "Did you just call me kid?"

"Easy…" Price warned, patting Soap comfortingly on the shoulder. "Kamarov, this is our new sniper. He just got off selection last week. John Mactavish."

"But you can call me Soap." Trooper Mactavish added, his face contorted in an angry glare. Kamarov seemed unperturbed by the young man's dirty look, and held out his hand again.

"Very well. It is a pleasure to meet you, Soap." Soap eyed the grubby hand, and raised a disgusted eyebrow, but sighed, and took it firmly.

"Nice to see we're all getting along so well." Price commented. "Now, what's the target Kamarov? We're on the clock here."

"I understand. BM21's are firing on a village a kilometre or so away. Their rockets have killed hundreds of civilians in the valley below. I have a good spot where your sniper can cover my men."  
"Wait one." Soap interrupted, a confused look on his face. "Boss, we don't have the bloody time to be covering Spetsnaz as they do their own attack. We've got twenty-four minutes before Nikolai is shot, probably less as it's hardly going to be exact, and we don't have time to-"

"Enough, Soap!" Gaz stopped him in his tracks. "You'll do what you're bloody told, you got me?" Soap glared at the SNCO, before sighing, and nodding grudgingly.

"Yes Staff."

"Any more objections?" Kamarov asked. He looked behind for a second, and gave a flick of his head. Out of the long grass, twelve more men, similarly dressed and armed, rose from the grass, and quickly moved over behind Kamarov. He spoke to them, issuing orders in Russian, and there was a fervour of nods and agreement, before they set off in their sections to quickly plan their movements and tactics. "They will follow us in a moment. Quickly, this way."  
"Not so fast, Kamarov." Price grabbed his shoulder, and turned him back around, waggling a finger in front of his face. "Remember Beirut?" Kamarov's face fell, and he nodded sullenly, as if ashamed of the memory. Soap and Gaz's lips curled into a triumphant smile, as they watched their leader educate Kamarov on how things were going to be run. "You're with us."

Kamarov shrugged, as if he was not bothered.

"Fine. I guess I owe you one." He did not say anything else, proceeding away and up a dirt ridge to the right of the field. Price grinned at his two men, before they followed quickly, climbing up the ridge. They passed another few buildings, along with a set of rusty swings and a battered old slide and see-saw. They were high up on the edge of the valley, following a rotting, waist high wooden fence around. Kamarov led them to the centre of the fence, where he withdrew a pair of binoculars.

"Three BM21's." He observed, as the Rocket Launch Systems fired another huge salvo of bright sparkling rockets across the sky, towards their targets just over a kilometre away. "We will provide sniper support from here while my men go in and take out the enemy. There are more BM21's further down the valley which we will deal with when that problem arrives."

"Right. Soap, get set up."

"Roger that." Soap placed his Diemaco on the floor, and pulled the drag-bag off his back. This was the new drag-bag, on trial issue to the SAS from Blackhawk. It far outclassed the normal issue drag-bag, which snapped and tore easily. The zips on the side whined quietly as he quickly unfastened them, opening the bag.

Contained inside was his L115A1 Sniper's rifle, the .338 Magnum version of the renowned Accuracy International L96A1. Soap's had been covered in green "sniper" tape, with camouflage cream smeared over it to help the barrel blend in more naturally. This particular version had gone for a suppressed barrel as standard, rather than fitting the suppressor over the end of the barrel via the threads. It carried a five round magazine, and like most dedicated sniper rifles, it was bolt-action, as opposed to semi-automatic. This would assist the weapon's accuracy, and the suppressor reduced recoil as well as noise.

He took the rifle into his hands, and sat down, crossing his legs as he did so. He would not be able to get the angles he wanted lying down, so instead chose to sit, resting the rifle on one of the planks that ran across the fence. He held the weapon in his right hand, using his left hand to remove the protective coverings on the 8x Schimdt and Bender scope.

"Can you spot for me?" He asked, looking up at Price.

"Yeah, no problem." Price lay down next to him, and pulled the green-covered spotters scope from the drag-bag. He unzipped the coverings, and pressed the scope to his eye, as Soap worked the bolt back and forth, bringing a polished .338 sniper round into the chamber of the weapon with a quiet, metallic scraping sound.

"You ready?"  
"Yeah. You?"

"Aye. Gaz, cover our left flank." Price pointed over at a burnt out rusting carcass of a car, where the Staff-Sergeant quickly established himself, lying down at the edge with only his Diemaco barrel with half his face showing. "Right. Kamarov, we're set to go when you are.

"Excellent." The Russian turned, and knelt down, squeezing the pressel for his PRM. "All units, standby, standby."

Soap watched through the scope as the twelve other Spetsnaz operatives made their way silently through the back of the village. He began his breathing exercises, inhaling, before letting the breath out slowly, leaving only a little bit of breath left inside. He would fire on the outbreath in between breaths, as simply holding one's breath would only result in shaking, followed by a potential miss. He zeroed on his first target, an Ultranationalist walking down the road towards them, carrying a G3 assault rifle, and wearing a battered old Chi-Com chest rig. He had a Beretta M9 stuffed in his waistband, and was wearing a mixture of Flecktarn and Russian combat gear. His boots were old, and battered, and Soap instantly recognised them as ancient British Army BCH, or "Boots Combat High". His oppo, walking a few feet behind him, wore an old World War Two Denison smock, something Soap made a mental note to go and collect later if they had time; such old pieces of kit had become rarities in the modern world. He also had 58 Pattern webbing, horrible grey canvas belt order which shrank when wet.

"Team one, in position."

"Team two, in position."

"Team three, in position."

"Roger that." Kamarov replied, and Soap focused completely on his target, blocking out everything else, and drawing a bead right on the X-Ray's heart. "Standby. Standby…go."

XXXX

Soap squeezed the trigger nano-seconds later. A grey plume of smoke trailed from behind a stone wall nearby, and in the corner of the scope, Soap saw a Spetsnaz soldier wielding an RPG Launcher. The rocket punched a BM21 in the rear, igniting the rocket-tubes on the rear of the truck mounting, before it detonated in a huge column of fire. Soap winced as the driver quickly scrabbled from the cab, screaming loudly as his petrol soaked clothing caught fire, and he rolled on the ground, trying in vain to douse the fire that engulfed his body. Soap ignored him, and moved onto another target, dropping the man with Dennison smock with a single shot to the head. He fell forwards, his finger depressing the trigger on his AK-47, and spraying seven-six-two all over the area.

"Target. Three-hundred metres, grey two-storey building, second floor. Second window from the left, sniper."

"Marked." Soap twisted across, and focused the weapon on the target that Price had indicated. The sniper was obviously inexperienced, and had taken the Dragunov as a matter of looking ally and cool, rather than being an actual marksman. He had pointed the barrel out of the window of the house, and was firing quickly, not taking his time at all. Soap merely aimed, squeezed the trigger, and the Dragunov fired no more. "Shot, centre mass."

"Macmillan would be proud…" Price seemed to drift off for a moment, a thin smile creasing his lips.

"Beg pardon, sir?" Soap asked, not taking his eye from the rifle, and scanning for another target.

"Nothing." Price gave an encouraging nod to the Trooper. "Just keep shooting. You're doing great."

Soap aimed, and took down another X-Ray who was lying prone on top of one of the buildings, just over a hundred metres away. He was about to fire again, when he felt a tap on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Kamarov stood over him, a panicked look on his face.

"My men are taking fire from those gunners down there." He pointed frantically down into the valley. Soap followed his gaze, and snapped eyes on a ground-floor window, clamped to which were a pair of RPK support weapons, firing non-stop. Soap watched as a Spetsnaz soldiers went down with a hit to the chest, and his friend pulled him quickly behind cover, before returning fire with his own weapon. "Take them out!"

"I got one…" Soap worked the bolt, and squeezed the trigger. He watched as the bullet impacted with its target, his head surrounded briefly by a crimson halo, before the blood and brain spattered all over the wall behind him. There was a problem with the next one, however. Though Soap could see the barrel of the RPK, the angle he was located at meant that he was unable to see the actual shooter, who was hidden behind the wall. He briefly considered relocating, as logic dictated anyway, for he had fired too many shots from the same location, and it was only a matter of time before some half-arsed intelligent guesser found their little hide. Had Soap planned this operation, he would've simply called in his own artillery, or at least possessed a combat ratio of three of his own men to every one of theirs. At the moment, they were one man to every five of the enemy, though that number was steadily decreasing with every shot they made.

"Through the wall." Price muttered, and Soap realised the truth in this statement. Contrary to video-game law, bullets could indeed go through walls. Being less than fifty metres from the target, and armed with quite a high-powered magnum round, punching through the thin plaster and layer of brick was no problem at all. Using a little intuition, Soap put two rounds through the wall, and the RPK was silenced.

XXXX

"Feckin' A, Mactavish!" Price slapped him on the back, and the young sniper allowed himself a small grin. He scanned the area for more targets, before a dull "chop-chop-chop" sound filled his ears, getting louder with every second. He looked up for a moment, and two MI-8 helicopters roared overhead. The first one flared over the village, and dropped two ropes, one from the rear, and one from the side door. The second helicopter changed course at it went over the village, and moved over to Soap's left, in a field beyond a half-destroyed and still-burning building that was standing at the end of the path they had taken up position, in the same direction that Gaz was currently.

"Jesus Christ." Captain Price's face was one of confusion and annoyance, and he turned, punching Kamarov in the shoulder. "You didn't say there'd be helicopters, Kamarov."

"Yeah, well I didn't say there wouldn't be any either!" the Russian retorted, starting off towards the field where the second helicopter was now dispensing its soldiers. "Come on, this way! We need to protect my men from those helicopter troops!"

"What about out informant, Kamarov? We need him alive!" Price grumbled, covering Soap as he packed up his sniper rifle back into the drag bag, and slinging it over his back.

"Then HELP us!" Kamarov stopped, and turned, looking back at Price, pleading. "We'll take out the BM21's, and carve a path straight to your informant." He sprinted off towards the house, as the three SAS men regrouped. Gaz was not pleased.

"I think we should beat it out of him, sir." The Staff-Sergeant did not mince his words. Soap expected Price to turn around and explain why that was a bad idea, but instead, the officer, just licked his upper lip, and brushed some dirt from his moustache, before replying.

"Not yet Gaz. Come on, let's follow him. He's going to get slotted without us."

XXXX

Bravo team dashed after Kamarov, who had already begun clearing the burning house without them. They made their way through quickly, not wanting to remain inside while there was a chance that the whole thing could collapse on them. Outside, they heard another salvo of rockets fire, the Ultranationalists obviously trying to get as much use out of their weapons as they could, as the low chatter of AK-47 fire was exchanged between both sides. The four men quickly pulled themselves into an extended line, taking up firing positions behind various items of cover that they came across. Gaz and Soap hid behind a large wooden building, while Kamarov took a broken refrigerator. Price simply lay down in the grass, before making his way behind an oil barrel.

"I have eyes on." Gaz murmured over their radio net as a group of soldiers moved down from the power plant, an area Soap recognised from the satellite imagery they had scanned earlier.

"Two-oh-threes." Price ordered, and the four men quickly flicked off the safeties for their various UGL's, three M203's and one GP-30. Soap leant out of cover, holding the weapon with his left hand, and quickly flipping up the grenade sight mounted on the Diemaco rails. "Everyone ready? OK, standby, standby, standby, standby, standby…FIRE!" Price yelled at the top of his voice. Four fat grenades were fired with a tremendous "thump", and Soap watched his spiral before detonated a metre or so in front of his target. He cursed. Grenade sights were something he still needed to get his head around. He quickly slid the M203 barrel forward, and unclipped one of the front pouches on his vest, tugging out another shell, and loading it back into the launcher. Before he got the chance to fire it again, green tracer began spraying towards him, and he ducked back into cover as splinters and chunks of wood flew from the building he was behind. He slammed the barrel back down shut, before switching back to the Diemaco itself. He leant out, and calmly began laying down rounds. Moments later, an AK-47 and two other suppressed weapons opened up. As he reloaded for the second time that evening, he checked his watch. Thirteen minutes to go.

"Gotta get a move on, lads!" He yelled out, forgetting completely about his PRM for the moment. "Quarter of an hour left!"

"They won't be thinking about that now!" Price replied, as he too reloaded his Diemaco. "I'd imagine they'll be more keen with remaining alive." He fired four rounds, downing two men, before he leant back into cover just as a round ricocheted off the oil barrel. Soap watched as one of the Air Assault Troopers ducked behind a battered old sofa, and he nearly laughed at the stupidity. He flicked to fully automatic, and sent a twelve round burst across the sofa, sending feathers and splinters of wood flying from the item of furniture. Soap was more interested in the brief view of the man's hand as he fell to the ground, yelling.

The smoke from the M203's cleared, and when it did, they saw the field ahead was clear. Kamarov immediately headed over to the edge of the valley again, waving the SAS men over. "My men need help moving through the village! Help me support them from the cliffs!"

"I've just about had enough of this…" Gaz murmured as he followed Kamarov to the sniping point, quickly ducking down, and opening fire. Soap did not bother with his sniper rifle, simply firing single-shots from his Diemaco. The sound of armoured vehicles echoed across the valley floor, and a BMP-3 trundled into view, firing its main cannon.

"Calm it, Gaz…" Price replied. "Though I know what you're talking about. Don't worry, we'll sort it. Soon." Gaz grunted, and went back to his shooting. The four men continued their rain of death and destruction from their vantage point, while a Spetsnaz soldier fired his RPG at the little tank that was blocking the route towards them. Price fired an M203 into a dilapidated house just below them, taking out three men with Dragunov sniper rifles. Kamarov seemed satisfied with this, and got to his feet again.

XXXX

"Come on! We are nearly there!" He dashed off up the hill at the end of the field towards the power plant. Soap could see the anger on Gaz' face, and he just nodded, following the Russian as fast as he could. Grass gave way to concrete as they passed through the once-electrified face, topped with razor wire. Soap's boots went from making dull thuds to loud stamps as he walked on tarmac for the first time this evening, and he followed Kamarov over to a wall at the back of the facility. Soap walked under an old pylon as Kamarov waited for them.

"We're here." Kamarov stated as Price and Gaz stood next to Soap. "We can take out he BM21's soon, as the village is still large, and requires clearance." Gaz looked up at Price, and slung his Diemaco. The officer nodded grimly. Soap just frowned in confusion as Gaz walked up behind an unsuspecting Kamarov. "With a little help from your sniper, Captain Price, our victory is-"

He never finished the sentence. As he was talking, Gaz grabbed the back of his assault vest, and forced him down on top of the thin wall. The bottom of the cliff was at least thirty metres below, and it was unlikely that anyone who fell would survive, and if they did, they wouldn't be walking ever again…or doing much else. The Russian yelled out in shock and surprise, but Gaz silenced him with a much louder and more aggressive voice.

"ENOUGH SNIPING!" the Staff-Sergeant screamed. "WHERE IS OUR INFORMANT?!" Kamarov cursed and screamed in Russian.

"Gaz, what the hell?!" Soap yelled. "He's our ally!"

"He's also wasting our fucking time!" Gaz replied. "So shut the fuck up Soap, if this what we need to get the job done, then so be it!" Gaz just spat, and snatched his pistol from the holster, cocking back the hammer with an audible click, and shoving it against the back of Kamarov's head. "WHERE IS HE?!" he ordered, as Kamarov's furry hat fell from his head, and dropped like a stone to the bottom of the valley floor.

Sergeant Kamarov coughed, and spluttered, before finally replying.

"The...THE HOUSE!" he yelled out, fearing for his life.

"What house?" Price asked, calm as ever, as if he were making the request over a cup of tea, not at gunpoint.

"The house! The house at the North-East end of the Village!" Gaz looked over at Price, who nodded, and the NCO pulled his Russian counterpart up from the edge, holstering his pistol.

"There. Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Kamarov's legs were weak from facing his death sooner than expected, and it was no trouble for Gaz to push him to the ground. The Russian breathed deeply, almost hyperventilating, clutching his AK to his chest. "Now, go sit in the corner like a good boy." Soap shook his head as Gaz walked back over to them.

"Eleven minutes to get across to him. Quickest route?" Soap asked, as Gaz unslung his Blackhawk assault pack, and unzipping it.

"No time to go back." Price agreed, and turned to Gaz. "You got the kit?"  
"I certainly do, Boss." Gaz withdrew a long, thick set of climbing rope, and some screws and karabiners. "I had a feeling these would come in handy."

"Gaz was Mountain Troop before he came over to the light and joined Air." Price explained to Soap as Gaz went about securing the rope to the edge of the cliff. "So he's been our go-to guy for stuff like this."

"Done, boss." Gaz murmured, as he pulled the knot tight. "Let's roll.

"Soap, you first." Soap nodded, and secured his Diemaco.

"Should I drop the sniper rifle?"

"No, we don't know if we'll need it again, so hold onto it."

"Roger that." Soap gripped hold of the rope, and looked down at the valley floor beneath him. This would certainly be the most interesting fast-rope he had ever done. He leaned back, outstretching his legs, and "bouncing" down the Cliffside.

XXXX

It didn't take him long at all to reach the bottom. He sprinted over to a brick wall surrounding a house, and arrived at almost the same time as most of the Spetsnaz Operators. There were nine now, taking up position at the edges of the wall. Ultranationalists were returning fire from a large house in the centre of the walls, a wrought iron gate providing Soap with the information he needed to deduce that this obviously the house of a rich person. The burning wreckage of a BM21 lay just outside the house, providing some cover for the Ultranationalists. Soap picked his targets as carefully as he dared, trying to drop each of them in three rounds or less, but he was having limited success.

"Alright guys, here's the plan!" Price yelled out, as he and Gaz joined Soap at the wall. "We'll peel off round to the left, over the fence, and use Boris as cover!" He nodded at the Russians, who were unaware, still firing rapidly at their foes. "We'll clear through the ground of the house, out the back door, and up the hill to the house on top of that hill! I'll assess the situation once we're up there!"

"HAVE THAT!" Gaz and Soap yelled at the same time. Gaz got to his feet, and tapped Soap on the shoulder, before sprinting around their backs, and over the wall. Soap followed him, tapping Price, until all three of them were over the wall, and crouched behind a large rock for cover.

"Oi, Russians." Price murmured into his PRM. "Quit shooting for ten seconds, we're gonna clear the buildings."

After a moment, the gunfire stopped.

"Grenades!" Price yelled, and he, Gaz and Soap flung a grenade each as hard as they could through the open front door of the house, before ducking back down.

"One, two, THREE!" Soap screamed as their combined explosives detonated. They were up and into the room moments later, putting rounds into the wounded on the ground, and killing anyone who not been killed by the original blast. Moving further into the room, two more men burst through another door, which apparently led upstairs. Soap and Gaz twisted and took them out as Price continued out of the back door of the building.

"We're clear." He told them, and soon after, the three of them had gone through the other buildings just as the Spetsnaz had begun sweeping through.

Moving up the hell, Soap hoped they weren't too late. He tore off his watch-cap, stuffing into the pocket on his right thigh. He was getting hot, quick, just as Gaz had predicted. Even the wetness in his boots had begun to dissipate, though this was swiftly being replaced with sweat. He wiped his forehead, loosened his fleece, rolling up the sleeves on his Lifa shirt. He made a mental note to next time, find a black UBACS, or Under-Body-Armour-Combat-Shirt, to help him keep cool while on operations.

XXXX

"Gaz, you're admin. Soap, you and me are going to form the assault team." Price ordered, slamming a fresh magazine home. "Through the front door, quiet as you like. Gaz, you go around the back and cut the power. Soap, get ready." Mactavish complied, he too reloading to ensure that he had enough rounds in the magazine to last in close-quarters. He flicked off the safety from his pistol to save even more time, and then pulled his night-vision monocular down onto his eyes. The thin, precise laser from the PEQ-2 was once again visible to him.

He and Price stacked up by the front door, as Cullen moved around the back of the house, towards the sound of the electrical generator. They heard a noise, followed by silence, save for the distant gunfire and yelling, and the light on the porch went out.

"Alright, let's go." Price slowly opened the door, and stepped inside, rolling his boots as best as he could, and trying to walk wherever there was carpet.

A Russian was yelling for his friend, not four metres away from them. Soap slowly moved so he could see the X-Ray, and used the laser to put him down quickly, a swift tap-tap more than sufficing.

"These night-vision goggles make it too easy…" Price whispered, and Soap nodded in agreement. They carefully avoided the body, and proceeded into the main hallway of the house, where another Russian was moving, his AK stuffed into his shoulder, nervously trying to feel his way through the darkness. Price took this one, shooting him in the face. The three 5.56 millimetre bullets made a terrific mess of his previous handsome features, and he fell with a loud clatter to the ground. Price moved forward, as if to check to the body, but there was no need. The man's face had been completely wrecked, with blood pouring out in a pool around his head.

"Nice one." Soap whispered, as he and Price headed upstairs.

Their next target was not so much a target at all, but like the drunk back on the cargo ship, he possessed a weapon, and as such, he had to be dropped. He was sat in the corner of the room, hiding behind an upturned table, pointing his Beretta frantically at where he thought the exits were. Unfortunately, he did not die quietly like the last two men. As Soap and Price shot him, he yelled out in pain, dropping his pistol, before a final round silenced him.

Soap looked down at him, taking the pistol, and ejecting the magazine. He stood up, and looked around, before a creak in some floorboards outside startled him. He spun around, pointing his weapon out towards the window, to find himself staring down the sights at Gaz, who was aiming his weapon back at him. The Staff-Sergeant raised lowered his weapon, and raised a finger to his lips. Soap nodded, and pointed two fingers at his eyes, before making a chopping motion with his hand towards a wall. Gaz gave a thumbs up, and began moving silently towards the window on that room, which overlooked the village outside.

A burst of Skorpian fire destroyed all attempts at being stealthy. An Ultranationalist aimed the weapon blindly around the doorframe, and sprayed the powerful little lead-hornets across the room, shattering glass. Soap and Price quickly took cover, and returned fire, shooting through the wall. They were in perfect synchronisation for a few brief moments, with Soap shooting from right to left at knee height, and Price firing from left to right at shoulder height. They listened, and heard the body collapse on the floor in the room.

"Fuck, well, the fucking cat's out of the bag now, isn't it?" Soap commented.

"Too fucking right." Price murmured as they moved to the next rooms.

He watched the door in front of him slam, and heard the clink of the grenade a second later.

"Bollocks! GRENADE!" Price yelled out, grabbing the back of Soap's vest, and pulling him back into cover. The resulting explosion tore a huge chunk in the walls and wooden floorboards beneath them. When the flames subsided, Price and Soap gingerly peered around the corner. The door was now open, and they moved as steadily as they dared towards it.

Suddenly, a bright flash of light appeared in front of them, almost dazzling them. Soap yelled out, blinded by the high-powered Maglite torch that was now staring him right in the face. As the pair of them quickly tried to pull their Nightvision from their faces, a pair of pistol shots rang out. Soap braced himself, and felt no pain, thinking for a moment that the shots must've been aimed at Price. But when he looked up again, he saw that the torch had been dropped to the floor, illuminating the still and dirty hand of the X-Ray. Soap followed the light with his eyes, and saw that it also pooled on the face of another man, his eyes half-closed, a bloody cut across his cheek.

"Jesus…" Soap swore, as Price darted into the room. Gaz was already stood there, Sig Sauer in his hands, and it was clear now that is was he who had fired the shots, and thus, saved them from an unfortunate end.

"Owe you one, Staff." Soap nodded,

"Don't mention it." Gaz replied. Price ignored the two of them, and bent down, picking up the Torch, and quickly checking the face of the man who was lying so still in the corner.

"Shite…it's him." He slapped the man's face a few times, before he jerked lazily back to full consciousness.

"What…where…who are-"

"Nikolai!" Gaz knelt down next to him, grabbing his hand and squeezing it firmly, so the confused man knew they were there.

"It's me. Andrew." Price smiled.

"Andrew…" Nikolai murmured, before he finally comprehended. "Oh! Andrew Price!"

"Nikolai, are you alright?" Gaz questioned, helping the man up. "Can you walk, mate?" The Russian said nothing, and swayed on his feet for a moment, before nodding his affirmation.

"Yes…I can still fight. Thankyou for getting me out of here alive."

"Think nothing of it mate." Price scanned the room with the torch, before finding an AKs-74u, a small, Spec-Ops carbine version of the AK-74. He picked it up, along with four magazines, and passed it to Nikolai. "We've got jackets on the heli, and warm food. You're alright now, pal." He turned to Gaz and Soap. "Gaz, clear our route outside. Soap, call in the bird and get us a pick-up. I want to go home."

"Yes boss." Both soldiers chorused, and going away to do their various tasks. Gaz kicked open a door leading to the balcony outside, and cleared said balcony, before leaping to the bottom of some steps in two bound. Soap followed him, before kneeling down on one knee, and squeezing his pressel.

"Hammer-Two-Four, this is Bravo Four, we are en route to extraction point and have the package in our possession, over."

"Roger that Bravo Four, we're en route, ETA sixty seconds." Came the deep, American reply of Hammer-Two-Four's pilot.

"Have that Two-Four. Igniting my sparkle now." Soap withdrew his Firefly IR Marker, which emitted no visible light, but would shine like a brilliant beacon to anyone looking at him through a thermal-imaging camera.

XXXX

Nikolai and Price left the building, as Soap removed his night-vision, and stuffed it into a utility pouch on the back of his Weesatch.

"I have news…" Nikolai whispered to them, as they ran towards an open field which would serve as the extraction point. Gaz and Soap quickly withdrew the Cyalume glow-sticks from their vests, Ultra-Bright emergency signalling ones that lasted for five minutes at most. "News about the crisis in the Middle-East."

"Tell us all about it when we're on the bird." Price told him. "Intel can wait till then." He looked up as the Black Hawk cruised down the valley towards them, skilfully avoiding a lot of the green tracer aimed towards it. The pilot flared the helicopter as the rotorblades threw soil and dust at them, but they ignored it, narrowing their eyes, and running towards the open cargo doors, and the awaiting crew chiefs, in this case, filled by two other SAS Operators, Sergeants Paulson and Airem.

Price was first there, not stopping to give cover as he normally would, as a Crew-chief was doing that job with an MP-5. He pulled himself up and into the back of the helicopter, followed by Nikolai, Gaz, and then Soap, who swiftly removed the snipers drag-bag from his back before getting it.

"You all set back there?" the pilot asked over the intercom as the crewchief took up his position in the back of the Black Hawk again, wielding the powerful minigun. Price merely raised a thumb, before breathing deeply, and withdrawing a cigar from inbetween one of the MOLLE loops on his vest. Nikolai watched him intently, before he suddenly seemed to remember something from before.

"Have the American's already attacked Al-Asad?" He asked, as Price lit the Cuban up skilfully with a plain match, twisting the cigar between his fingers as he did so. He frowned in confusion at Nikolai, before removing his Boonie hat.

"No." He replied. "Their invasion begins in a few hours. Why?" Nikolai shook his head, and looked dismayed, as if he knew something horrific would soon be happening.

"The Americans are making a big mistake. They will never take Al-Asad alive."

XXXX

_I liked writing this. Please review, people, as I need a morale boost during my weeks building up to exams. I haven't yet decided if I am going to attempt writing the American side of the story just yet, until I am more knowledgable about how American's operate and what equipment they use. I know that the American's form a pivotal role of the story, but unfortunately, this story can continue reasonably accurately without writing much for them other than the involvement of Staff-Sergeant Griggs. As stated in an earlier post, any help would be greatly appreciated. _


	5. Act 1: Charlie Don't Surf

Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare

Chapter 3

"Charlie Don't Surf."

**Listen up Marines! Spotters have a possible fix on Al-Asad in a building in the west of this town! We're gonna move in, secure the perimeter, and grab Al-Asad. Oo-rah? Lock and load!**

**XXXX**

Sergeant Paul Jackson narrowed his eyes through his goggles, as he stared out of the window of Black Super-Four-One. He brushed a hand through his hair, and licked his dry lips, before replacing his MICH helmet back onto his head, moving the goggles back over the top of the headgear. He took a deep breath, and steadied himself against the side door the vehicle, taking in the breathtaking view on in front of him.

They were flying over crystal blue ocean, the sun reflecting gloriously off the water, casting glittering diamonds of foamy spray as the draft from the rotorblades tore through the liquid. It was almost beautiful, had it not been for the twenty-four Black Hawk's, twelve Cobra's, and eight British Royal Navy Merlin helicopters that screamed overhead, loaded up to maximum on weapons or men carrying weapons.

The invasion had begun. A Coalition, consisting of US, British, Canadian and German forces had been waiting in a massive naval fleet for the better part of a month now, off the Persian Gulf. Plans had been drawn up in record time to facilitate this latest invasion of a Middle-Eastern country. And once again, Sergeant Paul Jackson was being sent to take out yet another Arab dictator.

Like all members of Second Squad, First Marine Force Recon, Jackson had fought in the Iraq War, and had been to Afghanistan on several occasions, so they were experienced fighting in the desert, and would acclimatise quickly. As for the others, he wasn't so sure. Checking his M4A1, rigged with an M203 and EOTech, he looked out of the porthole of the Black Hawk as a Cobra hovered into view next to them. The gunner looked up from the controls, and Jackson could see that it was a woman there, and thus, was probably the Cobra callsigned "Vicious". The only other Cobra he knew piloted by a woman was callsign "Deadly".

"Well, hello there, Vicious." Jackson murmured to himself, taking a sip from the Camelbak on his back as he did so. "And how are you today? Are you going to be giving me cover fire as I hoof it across the ground and hold down the Grid Squares that you remove from the map?"

Of course, there was no reply. The Gunner simply frowned behind the sun visor on her helmet, and gave a cheery wave, which Jackson and Private West, who was sitting with his legs dangling out of the edge of the helicopter, returned. West was their Javelin man, though they had elected to leave the Javelin behind for this mission, as intel hadn't reported any armour in the area, and besides, they had the Cobra's. The Private clutched onto the rope that they would be using to descend to the street floor once they reached their location. Second Squad had an important job, as they would be the ones kicking down the door of where Al-Asad was supposedly staying. They would have to be quick. They knew there were Anti-Aircraft defences on the shoreline, so once they reached that, the word would quickly pass around that the American's were coming, and thus, Al-Asad should get the hell out of that building if he wished to remain alive.

The plan was reasonably simple. Marine Force Recon would head into the town, and kick the door in, and that would give them enough time to secure the house and await support from other units. Six of the Merlin's contained members of the Royal Marine Commando section of the Special Forces Support Group, and would take and hold the harbour in preparation for their armoured support to arrive. The remaining two helicopters were transporting Britain's elite, the Special Boat Service, further inland, so they could rendezvous with Delta Force and SEAL Team Six, and begin their push to the capital city, wiping out enemy positions along the way. If MFR actually found Al-Asad though, then hopefully, any further incursions would be unnecessary, and they could pull out within the day.

"HQ, this is Outlaw-One-Two, we have reached the shoreline." Jackson heard the voice from the cockpit over his headset, and turned to check. Indeed, they were just about to head over the shoreline. As the massive assault force got ever closer to their target, Jackson was reminded of October 3rd, 1993. "The Battle of the Bakali Market". "Malinti Rangers". Whatever one called it, the situation was uncannily similar. A modern, heavily-armed American Assault Force was screaming their presence deep inside enemy territory they weren't completely familiar, surrounded by a civilian population would most likely side against these invaders, despite the fact that the Americans and their allies were here to help them. Everyone dreaded those three words that would signal the end of the mission, and the loss of the initiative. Black. Hawk. Down.

He turned, and looked inwards at the Marines that sat inside the belly of the Black Hawk, awaiting their chance to get into the fighting. Most carried the M4A1 carbine, with M68 Aimpoint or EOTech red-dot-sights. Some had M203's. Others carried W1200 Shotguns, that they would use to breach through doors. Jackson and three other men had M203's mounted to their weapons, and two men carried M249 SAW's. They should, by all rights, have been carrying the M16A4, the standard issue USMC weapon, but the Squad had insisted they be given the shorter, more compact M4, especially in close-quarters such as this. One or two men had NLAW rockets as well.

Each man wore a set of Desert issue MARPAT, or Marine Pattern Camouflage. Over the top this, most had the Marine issue MTV, or Modular Tactical Vest, a set of body armour with the pouches rigged via a Modular PALS system. A couple however, were wearing the smaller, lighter Weesatch vest, in coyote brown colour. Their helmet was of relatively new design, known as the MICH, replacing the older PASGT helmet that had served the US Army for many years.

The only man still to carry an M16A4 was Lieutenant Vasquez. A big, hulking Latino bear of a man, Vasquez sat, squashed into the front of the helicopter. His body armour was a myriad of pouches, containing mostly ammunition and his two water bottles, plus his HF Radio that allowed him to get in contact with HQ, as well as his own men. On his back was a sawn off Remington shotgun strapped through the back of his body armour. He wore no helmet cover on his MICH, only the metallic coloured Kevlar covering, with several little chalk lines on the back, in groups of five; the number of people he had killed over his years in the Marines. The number was surprisingly small, considering the fact that Vasquez was thirty-four, quite possibly the oldest Lieutenant in the world, though no-one was sure if this was because he was passing up promotion or being passed over. Either way, they were just happy that he still remained as their CO. He was tough, fit, and an excellent leader, and Jackson was proud to be his number three.

An RPG streaked past the helicopter, the signature trail of smoke lazily wafting through the rotorblades. Jackson began patting down his gear, making sure all his buckles and pouches were done up, everything was still attached to his vest, his weapon was cocked, with rounds in the chamber and in the magazine. Across from him, the Merlin's flared as they stopped above the harbour, ropes quickly being dropped from the inside. A Royal Marine, with no helmet, just his Green Beret, leapt from the helicopter, clutching hold of the rope, and swinging down to the ground, his SA80A3 strapped tightly over his front. More men followed, these ones wearing Kevlar, and Jackson could only assume that the first man had been an officer…a nutcase. He shrugged it off, and turned back to his own men.

"Alright, here's the plan, one last time." Vasquez leaned forward to speak to his other men, his M16 now in his hands. "We rope down into the street and head to the target building. First Squad are hitting the front. We're hitting the rear. We clear through while Third and Fourth establish blocking positions. Then we hold down and await further orders. Oo-rah?"  
"OO-RAH!" They all yelled, the bravado coursing through their veins. The helicopter was suddenly filled with the sounds of weapons cocking, and shouts of encouragement and excitement from the men of Second Squad. They saw another Black Hawk across from their own begin to hover, and dispense the Marines inside, roping down the fifteen metres or so onto the sandy ground beneath them. This was it.

The Black Hawk pilot pulled back on the controls, pulling the helicopters nose into the air, and slowing it to a halt. West wobbled slightly from his precarious perch on the side of the helicopter, before he pushed his coiled rope out from the side, and it plummeted to the surface, curling slightly at the bottom as the excess hit the ground.

"Green light!" The crew chief yelled, still holding onto his M137 Minigun, actively hunting out targets. Jackson took a moment to grin at the chief's aviator shades, before slinging his weapon over his front, and pulling his gloves tighter over his hands. "Green light, go, go go!" The Chief patted West on the back as he slid out onto the rope, holding on tight at first, and then reducing his grip, allowing himself to slip down. Moments later, Jackson was right behind him, his goggles keeping the sand and dust from entering his eyes as he carried on down, before his Converse boots made contact with the sand.

He instantly dropped to one knee, bringing his carbine up into his shoulder, eyes narrowed, teeth gritted, and aiming down the street. He could see Super-Four-Two deploying it's own men about two-hundred metres up, through some alleyways, and then West darting in front of him, M4 in his shoulder, heading down the street. Jackson nodded, before getting to his feet. The young Private had his head screwed on right, that was certain. Jogging slightly to catch up, and leave as little a gap as possible (a more desirable tactic during OBUA), the two men proceeded down the side of a wall, though not completely pressed up against it, with West covering the front, and Jackson pointing his weapon slightly to the right of him.

Some movement just at the edge of his vision made him shift his aim to across the street, but as the people got closer, he identified them as Corporal Thompson and Private Zampella of Third Squad, pulling a massive coil of barbed wire behind them, several metres long. Another Marine knelt by the corner, covering them as they pulled it across the street.

"GO, GO!" Lieutenant Connor yelled as he emerged from the alleyway, covering the other arc, down from where Second Squad had come from. "Set up the blocking positions, let's go!" They knew the barbed wire would do nothing against a vehicle, but they weren't expecting any trouble from that. Second Squad turned around the corner, and out into a courtyard, surrounded by wooden fences and covered in scrub.

"There's the target building! Stack up!" Vasquez jabbed his hand in the direction of the doorway as they picked up pace. Private Anderson slung his M4 over his back, and instead took his W1200, pumping it to bring a round into the chamber. "Left side door breach!"

They did as ordered, with Vasquez taking the first position, Anderson second, and Jackson third. West, Hobbs, and Walker turned to give cover, and they would hold down the door of the building while the other three went inside. Vasquez turned, and nodded at Anderson. The Private stepped forward, and placed a small, C4 breaching charge on the handle of the door, before returning to his position as the second man.

"Standby." Vasquez readied his M16. "Standby…execute." Anderson clicked the detonator in his hand, and the charge exploded, knocking the door in, splinters of lock and door spraying around. "Breaching, breaching!" the Lieutenant cried as he entered the room. Anderson followed quickly, and Jackson heard seven shots, before silence. By the time he had gotten inside, the first two men had already cleared the room, and were standing on opposite sides of the door, checking for more targets. Three dead men, heads wrapped in multi-coloured shemagh scarves, lay on the floor, with blood and brain spattering all across the wall behind them.

"Clear?"  
"CLEAR!" Jackson responded. There was a single door to the right of where they had entered, and the three men stacked up once more, as their remaining fireteam piled inside to secure the door and cover their six. "Let's move."  
"Jackson, take point." Vasquez ordered, and the Sergeant moved to the head of the group, patrolling through carefully. There was a staircase leading downwards, with an open door at the end, where they could hear shouting and the sounds of weapons being loaded.

Jackson knelt down once they reached the base of the stairs, and peered carefully around the corner. The room was larger than he could see from where he was, leading off to the right, with several tables moved edge to edge. He could see one Insurgent, with a red beret on his head, loading seven-six-two into an AK-47 magazine. He was wearing British Army CBA, or Combat Body Armour, with an Arktis assault vest over the top. His sleeves were rolled up, and he had a pistol strapped to his belt, probably a Beretta. The Sergeant's eyes darted about, taking in other details. There was another door, this one to the left, and some crates just inside the door they were about the go through which could provide some decent cover. He fumbled around on his body armour, before finding the PTT for his radio, and clicking it down.

"I've got contact. I have eyes on one Tango, but I can't see the rest of the room. There are some crates to the right of the doorway, and a door in the far left hand corner. There's shouting, so there's gotta be more men inside."

"Roger that." Vasquez swapped positions with Anderson, coming down to Jackson. "We're going to move in and clear the room. Throw a grenade, but be on the lookout for Al-Asad. We'd rather have him alive."  
"Yes, El-Tee." Jackson nodded. "Flash or frag?"  
"Frag."Jackson grabbed one of the grenades from his thigh rig, and removed the pin carefully, his M4 dangling to his right.

"Ready?" He looked behind him. Vasquez nodded grimly, before shouldering his M16. "Then let's go." He tossed the explosive into the room, before turning, and slamming his back up against the wall, loosening his jaw. The vibrations the grenade could cause would rattle his teeth enough loosened, if he kept his jaw clenched then there was no telling what might happen.

The explosion caught the man loading his magazines unawares, and he was sent flying forward, slamming the bridge of his nose onto the table from the force of the grenade, before being killed by the bursting shrapnel of the grenade. Jackburst in, kneeling by the right hand side of the door, and aiming, eyes wide, hunting for targets. One man burst through the door to the right, G3 in his hands, firing wildly, before he was put down by a double-tap from Jackson's M4. Vasquez was next in, kneeling by the left of the door, killing two men who tried to approach from the opposite end of the room. When they were certain the room for the moment was clear, they moved forward, Jackson leaping over the crates, assaulting it from both sides. He swapped hands with his M4, leaning out to the left around a corner, and getting his first glimpse of the rest of the room. There was afire extinguisher on the wall, as well as two more doorways, and the tables ran all the way to the end. He stood up to get a look at them, and found huge quantities of small-arms and tactical gear, even some old US M69 Flak Vests. Jackson made a mental note to mark the building for a more thorough search later, as there was no telling what else could be in the upper levels.

Regrouping, Jackson, Vasquez and Anderson shuffled down the wall, listening to the hushed whispers that came through both of the doorways.

"Jackson, throw a flashbang." Vasquez ordered. "That should put them on their asses."

"Roger that." Jackson turned to Anderson, who passed him the distraction device, and he flung it into the room, where it detonated instantaneously. There were screams and shout from the men inside, as Jackson slipped through the doorway, moving as far right as he could, until he reached the corner of the room. Two enemies were stumbling about that he could see, and he hurriedly thumbed his weapon to fully-automatic, depressing the trigger, and dispatching his foes with several accurate shots. He knelt down, and leaned around another corner, in time to see another Tango's head explode from the force of one of Anderson's shotgun shells, before all was silent in the room. The smoke was still clearing as Vasquez loosely held his weapon by the pistol grip, using his other hand to depress his talk button on the radio.

"All Callsigns, check the bodies. We need a positive ID on Al-Asad."

Jackson rolled over the nearest corpse to him, pointing his MEUSOC pistol into the body's face. The man's tanned features and shaven chin were most certainly not those of Khaled Al-Asad, and he seemed a bit too tall in any case. The three men worked quickly, turning over all the people they had encountered so far.

"Negative here sir." A Marine informed them as they checked the last of the people in the basement.

"No sign of Al-Asad here, sir." Vasquez looked visibly disappointed.

"Fuck." Was all he said as he kicked a discarded helmet across the room, and holstered his MEUSOC back into the pouch on his thigh rig. He brought his M16 back into his hands, and reloaded the magazine, putting his empty into the dump-bag on his left leg. "Command, this is Red Dog. Target building is secure, but we don't have Al-Asad. Over." He turned, and began heading up another set of stairs to the rear of the building, back up to the surface. Jackson and Anderson looked at eachother, shrugged, and followed him quickly. "Roger that HQ. Out."

"Heads up! I just got word that Al-Asad is broadcasting at a TV station half a click west of here. We're gonna move in on foot, and take down the package. Move it." They emerged back into the blinding sunlight, and Jackson suddenly realised that his goggles were still pressed down firmly over his eyes. He pulled them up and onto his helmet, and wiped away the rings of sweat on the back of his glove. "Fall in, we're moving to regroup with First Squad back on the crossroads." The three elite soldiers fell into line, joined a few seconds later by the remains of the squad, who dropped into position on their tail. The crossroads were back the way they came where Third had established their blocking position, and the enemy had obviously counter-attacked as they had gone into the building. Vasquez led the way, back across the courtyard, and through a mesh gate which he kicked open with his foot. His huge frame had to turn slightly in order to fit through, and they followed on in awe of their officer.

Things weren't looking very good as they reached the stronghold. Lieutenant Connor was firing his M4 slowly, on single shot, with a nasty looking wound in his shoulder. Next to him, much to Jackson's dismay, lay two dead Marines, both staring up at the sky, sightless eyes taking in the clouds and Black Hawks that spoiled the beauty of the blue sky. Jackson and Vasquez knelt next to Connor, and began helping him, as First, Second and Third Squads commenced the defence of their objective.

"Sitrep." Vasquez ordered. Connor stopped firing, and turned to look at the older Lieutenant.

"They came out of nowhere, sir, honest to God they did. They took out Marvin and Carlton, and we've got Jamieson and Parker wounded down the street."

"I see. OK, here's what's going to happen. Al-Asad is broadcasting at the TV station, to the East of here. You and Lieutenant Wilson of First are going to hold this position until reinforcements arrive, Command ETA's they will be here in twenty, both US and British. Once that has happened, you will provide dismount support for the armour." Connor nodded, and fitted a new magazine to his weapon.

"What about you?"

"Second Squad will ride the initiative and make the push towards the TV Station. We will link up with the other men of our Squad with Staff-Sergeant Griggs."

"Roger that."

"We'll flank around to the right down this street." Vasquez indicated to both Jackson and Connor. We'll clear the area, house by house if necessary. I'll call in some air support to give us assistance as we go. Jackson, prep the men. Connor, pop smoke."

The Lieutenant lobbed the Smoke Grenade over their heads, and it landed a few metres down, while Vasquez spoke frantically into his radio headset, kneeling down behind a wrecked car.

"Roger that…I understand…OK, Dragon-One-One, roger." Just as he spoke, an Apache Longbow roared overhead, firing a salvo of sixty-millimetre rockets and cannonfire. The ordnance tore through the buildings down the street, taking out many enemy sniper positions. A few survivors tried to fire RPG's, but to no avail, and they were cut down having revealed their positions to fire. Vasquez gave a thumbs up to the helicopter that was rapidly moving away from them. "Thanks for the assist Dragon-One-One, we owe you. Red Dog out."

"Alright, let's move out Marines. Griggs is waiting for us." Jackson waved his hand above his head, and leapt over their cover, breaking right down the alleyway as soon as possible, Vasquez and the rest of Second in tow.

They twisted and turned down alleyways, being given a little guidance by aircraft in the area, but for the most part, they were on their own, Vasquez guiding their route with his Garmin GPS. Jackson wasn't afraid to admit that, for the most part, he was absolutely terrified. Enemy fire could come from any angle, and a single RPG or trip-mine could take them out in seconds, rendering the assault force down an entire squad.

"Griggs, this is Vasquez. What's the situation?" The Team Leader spoke over the mic in a whisper. The tones of their second-in-command, Staff-Sergeant Griggs, who was currently on the other side of the city with the second half of Second Squad.

"We're movin' in on the target building, sir. We'll wait for you before we go in."

"Red Dog this is Command, are you the callsign moving East down an alleyway, over?" Vasquez didn't bother stopping as command interrupted, just thumbing his pressel.

"Roger that Command, Red Dog is moving East." Only gunfire for a moment. Then…

"Red Dog, be advised, possible spotters tracking you, we have multiple enemy contacts moving parallel to your position and establishing ambush points along the way."

"Jackson, hold up." Vasquez stopped the Sergeant, who nodded, and pressed himself into a doorway as far as he could go.

"Say again, Command."

"Red Dog, you have multiple contacts moving parallel of your position in the street over to your left, in preparation to ambush."

"Roger that command, please advise, over." Jackson listened to his Lieutenant as another helicopter flew over, and sand swarmed around them for a second.

"Red Dog, there is a small shanty town approximately one hundred metres in the direction you are heading, you should be able to sweep through and eliminate the ambush from there. If we can we'll get some air support over to you but don't hold your breath as a lot of other units are bogged down worse than you, over."  
"Roger that command. What's the ETA on our armour?"

"We're having some trouble off-loading the tanks right now, apparently Captain Carr and his Commando's are taking a lot of fire."

Vasquez called a quick huddle with Jackson.

"Command says the tanks are going to be a little while longer, and there's a possible ambush site up ahead. We're going to move in and take up firing positions along the edge of the shanty town, and press through from there. With luck we should be reinforced by members of Second Platoon after that, and then we'll press on to the TV Station."

"Roger that. Actions on reaching the shanty town?"

"Hold your ground, and three-by-three advance once I give the order. Move 'em out, Sergeant Jackson."

"Yessir." Jackson turned, and pointed at two Marines, before waving his hand in the air, signalling for them to follow. The fireteam quickly sloped off further down the street, stopping at the corner. Jackson could see a mass of corrugated iron walls surrounded by more permanent looking buildings. Anderson moved up another few metres and knelt down, aiming through a tear in the iron, as the rest of Fireteam Alpha got ready, narrowing their eyes, reacting to every little movement or sound across from them. Vasquez checked his M203, before sliding the barrel shut again, and getting the rifle comfortable in his shoulder.

There was nothing. Not a sound, save for the crackle of gunfire around them, and the occasional yell. Jackson's face was twisted into an expression of readiness and determination, his fire-retardent finger gently stroking the trigger on his weapon, pushing it tighter into his shoulder with every passing second. He caught a glimpse of a boot in a doorway, before it disappeared back into the darkness.

"Possible hotspot. Doorway on the right."

"I see it." Anderson nodded, but didn't look. He was busy covering his own arcs.

The first rattle of Kalashnikov fire came from a balcony above them. Jackson cried out, turning to his left, and aiming up, pushing the safety of his M203, and hammering the grenade through the window. It exploded, sending a huge cloud of dust out, followed swiftly by the remains of an AK-74.

There was a huge cry of "ALLAH AKHBAR!", and insurgents came flooding from doorways to their front and rear.

"Shit! Return fire! Head to the centre, find some cover!" Vasquez yelled. He put a powerful boot into the nearest bit of corrugated, and it flew from it's post on the ground. The officer leapt into the centre of the shanty town, find a bit of cover near a mound of sand there, also protected by the rest of the sheet-metal.

"You heard the man!" Jackson yelled. "Get to the centre, find some cover! Anderson, GO!" Jackson grabbed Private West's Weesatch, and sprinted off as fast as he could, favouring his MEUSOC over the M4 so as to fire accurately. He missed most of his shots, but a single .45 round ricocheted through the cheek of one of his targets. He dragged the confused Private over to Lieutenant Vasquez, and put him down behind a wrecked car, even pointing out the targets to him, before going around and ensuring everyone else was in a good angle to begin their defence. Jackson had to admit, it wasn't looking good right now. Six men versus they didn't know how many. He scanned the rooftops for hotspots, and exit positions.

"What now, sir?!" Jackson shouted. Vasquez didn't reply. "SIR?!" The Sergeant turned to yell again at his CO, before realising that the Lieutenant was deep in conversation with someone on the radio, once again. Which was exactly what they needed right now. Some support. Preferably not "Broken Arrow", but some more CAS would be good.

Jackson left Vasquez alone for the moment, instead focusing on his own problem; remaining alive, and keeping his squad alive. He fired his M4 until the bolt rang out with a satisfying "clink" as his magazine emptied, and he quickly swapped it, stuffing the empty in the drop-leg pouch on his thigh. He slapped the bolt home and resumed shooting.

"RPG!" Someone yelled out, and Jackson instinctively turned to look. Sure enough, on the rooftop, was a man dressed in brown fatigues, kneepads, and Arktis tactical vest and a Shemagh scarf. "Get down!" the man launched the rocket, and it whooshed down towards them. Jackson ducked down, curling up into as small a target as he could as the missile burrowed into the sand in front of him, before exploding, sending the grit all over them. Jackson suddenly wished he still had his goggles on as it sprayed into his eyes, and then down the front of his jacket and up his sleeves.

"Fuck!" someone yelled out, and Jackson hurriedly shook himself down. He forced himself back up onto one knee, and he and one other Marine fired relentlessly at the RPG man. His chest convulsed and was sent back and forth, before he fell forward, off the roof, and onto the ground.

"Sir, we can't sit here much longer!" West yelled over at his Lieutenant. "We're takin' a beating!"

"I hear you, Private!" Vasquez pointed down towards an alleyway, through the centre of the shantytown. "Everyone, follow me! Break for cover and occupy that building!"

Vasquez got to his feet, and patted Jackson on the shoulder, before hurrying down the thin corridor of iron. Jackson ensured that all the other men got to their feet, and he sent them down the right direction, following their officer closely. Bullets ricocheted off of the metal with high-pitched whines and sparks, but none made contact with any of the Marines as they forced their way down their perilous cover, holding their own against their enemy with accurate, well-placed rounds.

"C'mon West!" Jackson yelled. Private West was struggling, he could see. "C'mon dude, we gotta be less than two-hundred metres now, we gotta keep moving!"

"I hear ya sir."

"Don't call me sir, Goddamit!" Jackson screamed.

That earned a laugh. It was important for them to remain as at ease as possible in the combat situation. Jackson ran towards a doorway, and planted his foot against the wooden door, before piling straight in. There was no-one inside, luckily enough, so there was no need to shout and plasticuff civilians, or shoot anyone else.

"Inventory." Vasquez commanded. "How are we doing for ordnance?"

They sounded off their ammunition statuses, and redistributed as necessary, before heading outside to the end of the houses, back into the blinding sunlight. The dust swirled in the air, and helicopters and fighter jets soared over the rooftops, barely clipping the tiles and bricks. The squad spread out into a line, before going prone in a dip just behind a tarmac road. They could see the top of the TV station off in the near-distance, but between them and it was a myriad of other buildings, no doubt filled to the brim with enemy contacts.

The sound of a Browning M-2 firing made them all look off to the right, and a Toyota flatbed truck came haring towards them, crewed by three men; driver, passenger, and gunner. The passenger was leant out of the window with a Skorpian Machine pistol, firing wildly and with abandon.

"Incoming technical!" West yelled out, ducking down just as one of the massive fifty calibre rounds shattered a mud brick just to the left of his head.

"Jackson, let's get him!" Vasquez raised himself up on one knee, and fired his 203, with Jackson following moments after. The first grenade hit the vehicle as it went to turn a corner, and the gunner was blown from his perch, flying forwards from the blast, and in front of the vehicle. Before he could get run over, Jackson's explosive nailed it right through the back window, into the inside, and exploded as it made contact with the dashboard, peeling back the roof and sending it across down the main street.

A flash of AK-47 caught Jackson's eye on top of a small building, topped with some sort of fuel container. More contacts were now visible, and the squad was spoilt for targets. The choice was made them for quickly enough, however, as a Cobra sprayed the road with it's cannon and rockets, taking out a large proportion of enemies, leaving the route reasonably clear for the Marines to proceed. Vasquez got onto his feet.

"On me, Ladies!" he waved his hand, and ran across the road towards one of the buildings.

"C'mon kids, hustle, let's go let's go let's go!" Jackson watched each man go across the road, before following, his M4 up in his shoulder, fumbling to reload his 203 as he went. Arriving on the other side of the road, they saw clouds of dust approaching from what was now the left-most side of the road. "Hell is that?"

"HQ this is Red Dog. We have visual on approaching vehicles, possibly armoured, down the road advancing on our position, please identify, over."

"Copy that Red Dog, we have ID'd them as Charlie Squadron QDG, that is British Forces inbound to your position." They breathed a sigh of relief. Friendly armour, with Bushmaster cannons and more infantry.

They twisted and turned through the back alleys of the buildings, before the rest of the squad came across two Marines holding down the edge of an alley, weapons pointed up at the TV Station. Jackson dashed towards them, and tapped one on the shoulder, leaning behind him, and aiming his own carbine.

"We got the whole place locked down. Al-Asad is inside."

"Roger that. We have armour moving in as we speak. British and US."

"Orders?" Jackson asked.

"The rest of you will stay out here. Second Squad will move in and link up with team two."

"Alright, stack up." Jackson's voice suddenly lowered secretively, and he hunched himself over, moving from cover to cover towards a small side-door on the edge of the building. The TV station was the only modern looking building he had seen so far, made of concrete and glass instead of simply brick. It was grey instead of sandy and sun-bleached, and the cars were different colours other than white and rusty orange outside. The rest of the men followed him, and stacked up on the left hand side of the door.

"Standby, Standby…" Vasquez gave a hand-signal, and a Marine from another squad shifted forward, quickly moulding the C4 charge to the doorway, before tucking himself back in amongst the squad. "Go. Breaching!"

The familiar procedure, drilled and rehearsed countless times, was carried out again. The charge detonated, the squad moved in, and the corridor into the TV station was clear. Jackson gave a quick hand signal. _Move up._ He and the rest of the group moved forward, slowly and steadily. This was different to the buildings they had cleared before; this one had been fortified and prepared specifically for an assault of this kind, and would no doubt be mined and booby-trapped to hell. A certainty that was demonstrated barely moments after they had entered.

"Hold up." Vasquez whispered. "Eyes-on. IED. Microwave, left of doorway." Jackson moved across so he could get a better look. Sure enough, a hastily prepared IED had been slapped down on the side of the door. Anyone who would approached it from the left would surely have missed, and thus tripped it, setting off the explosives.

"We can skirt around." Jackson indicated another door about halfway down the corridor that Private West was near. They opened the door slowly and carefully, moving through.

"It's too quiet." Jackson whispered over the squad net as they headed through another door, and went into what appeared to be the main, central area of the building; a vast open room, dotted with tables and cubicles which would normally no doubt be busy with journalists and news staff collating news reports and filing them, ready to be broadcast on Al-Jazeera.

"Spread out." Vasquez gave a couple of hand-gestures, and the Marines spread themselves across the wall of the office, aiming directly ahead. "Move forward, clear out anything you come across."

"Roger that El-Tee."

Jackson moved forward slowly, keeping an eye on the ground in front of him for tripwires and microwave emitters, as well as an enemy that had almost as many hiding places inside this room than he had outside. He absent-mindedly checked his safety catch, before doing a running total of ammunition in his mind. He couldn't have had more than three magazines left, and a couple of forty-millimetre grenades.

"Shhh…" a voice whispered over the net, the entire section stopped. Jackson looked around, to see West holding up a clenched fist. "I hear something."

Over the noise of the incoming vehicles and sporadic gunfire outside, they listened.

"I hear nothin'…" one Marine complained, turning around, his shotgun scanning the adjacent rooms for targets. "Just stuff that's outside."  
"RPG!"

"RPG!"

Like the buildings they had cleared before it, the entire news centre exploded into a hail of blinding light and deafening sounds the Marines saw the three men on the upper balconies armed with RPG's.

"Motherfucker!" Jackson cursed loudly as one the RPG men fired directly at him. The Sergeant yelled out, and ducked down, instinctively dropping his weapon, and curling up into a ball on the floor of the newsroom, inbetween two of the cubicles. "Fuck-fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck!"

"Fire your weapon Jackson!" Vasquez deep, commanding voice screamed out of nowhere. Paul Jackson quickly pushed himself back onto his feet, covered in foam and bits of plastic, and regained his composure, bringing his weapon back to bear on the nearest enemy. "I have multiple contacts to the right!" he yelled, as more targets appeared, flooding from the doors on the outside of the room. He stood as high as he dared behind his flimsy cover, somewhere in-between crouching and standing, so that just his head and weapon was pointed over the top. He half wished that he wasn't carrying the M203 so he could get even lower, but no such luck. Within moments, he had a two people either side of him, firing their own weapons in support of oneanother. Glass shattered all over, and the previously cool interior of the building was now stiflingly warm, filled with smoke and flame as the carpeting caught fire.

"Not good." Someone murmured as the flames began to spread, the enemy fire slowly becoming less and less constant. The militia fighters were simply outclassed by the US Marines, and they were once again back on track, heading towards the upper levels of the TV station.

"Get that door down." Vasquez ordered, and Jackson dashed towards the double set of doors, and slammed his foot against it. It opened easily, banging across on the wall that it was bolted to, and Jackson was through, almost running, rifle at the ready, as aggressive as he possibly could be. They came out into an open reception area, well-lit and almost entirely glass.

"Those are our boys!" West yelled out in jubilation, looking out of the windows as three Abrams MBT ploughed into view. Their heavy armour and size belied their speed, and they tore across the car park, crushing and pushing other cars out of their way. They were followed on soon behind by a pair of Marine LAV's, and six Warrior Armoured vehicles, which stopped in a combat line, and released their cargo of Royal Marines. The twelve or so men from each IFV took up their own defensive positions, as Jackson and the others move on across the reception area.

"Hold up." A dark, African-American sounding voice ordered through their headsets. Griggs. "Friendlies comin' out, hold your fire." Jackson and Vasquez looked around the room.

"There." West indicated with his hands, and a door next to the front desk opened. Eight more men, dressed in desert MARPAT, moved through, led by a well-built black man carrying an M249.

"Staff-Sergeant." Vasquez nodded in greeting as Staff-Sergeant Griggs moved towards him. Griggs was a relatively young Staff-Sergeant, and as such, still retained a lot of the rebellious traits that he had had when going through basic training. His moustache was untidy and thick, adorning his upper lip, and he wore no shirt underneath his body armour, completely bare skin, with his pilot gloves covering his hands. He had aspirations of becoming a rap artist, and would often subject the almost always unwilling members of Second Squad to his lyrics.

"Situation Report?" Griggs asked, coming to kneel down next to his officer.

"Nothing in the rooms back there, we think he's upstairs. Armour has the entire area outside locked down, we're gonna move in and take the position upstairs."

"Roger that. Team two, fall in with team one." Griggs waved a hand in the air as if to illustrate his command. "We'll follow you on sir."

He turned, and he seemed to notice Jackson for the first time. "Hey, Paul, you alright man?"

"Always, braw." Jackson slapped Griggs' helmet playfully as they passed eachother to move into position. "You watch my back, oo-rah?"  
"Oo-rah." They formed up in a line again, with West taking point up the stairs, and clearing the route forward. They met little resistance as they hit the upper levels, though a few remaining bad guys had tried their luck with the Royal Marines outside. It had not gone well. Jackson paused for a moment to watch as seven soldiers had charged the British soldier's position, and had been met with a hail of machine gun fire from two GPMG's, what the American's would have called M240B's. He gave a slightly morbid smile, before continuing. Harriers screeched overhead, leaving vapour trails in the sky, on their way to bombing runs elsewhere in the city.

"We're getting close." Vasquez informed them as they headed onto the roof. "Intel says that the transmission is coming from this corridor here."

There was only one door as they went inside, and instantly, everyone of them fell completely silent. Jackson and Vasquez took point, with one of Griggs' team with them acting as their shotgun man.

"This room." Vasquez barely whispered. "I can hear 'em."

"Copy that." Jackson replied, shifting forwards. "OK, stack up and standby." West darted to the other side of the doorway, his weapon in his shoulder. "OK, one my command, you're gonna hit the door. Hinges and the lock. West, Flashbangs. We'll break left and right as we go in. I'll grab the bastard and flex-tie him, get him on the ground while the rest of you keep me covered. Oo-rah?"  
"Oo-rah, Sergeant." The Marine with the Shotgun nodded, and gingerly stepped in front of the door. He was particularly exposed now; if the enemy heard them and opened up, then the poor guy would be screwed. Jackson hoped he was quick with reloading his shotgun. "Go."

The Marine fired his first round on the hinge, and blew an entire chunk of the door away. He quickly pumped the action on the bottom of his weapon, and fired again, this time aiming low. Another chunk was blown in, followed swiftly by the lock and handle on the door. Not bothering to reload again, he twisted, pressing his back up against the wall, his shotgun pointing down at the floor. "GO GO GO!" Jackson yelled. Griggs tossed his flashbang, and it detonated as he and West burst through, scanning their sectors. West fired at an enemy as he broke right, Griggs heading left. Jackson was third in, followed swiftly by Vasquez, the four of them moving to the corners of the room, firing on fully automatic on anything that moved or possessed a weapon.

"Clear right!"  
"Clear left!"  
"Room clear!" Vasquez yelled, and Jackson sprinted forward, kicking bodies over carefully, keeping his M4 pointing at them at all times. "Anything?" Vasquez asked as he rolled the last one over.

"Nega-" something caught Jackson's eye, and he looked up at the TV Screens. Every single one of them possessed Al-Asad's image, speaking in his deep voice, yelling in Arabic. Jackson shook his head in disgust, as if he'd suddenly realised what was going on. "It's a fuckin' recording!" he yelled, kicking a discarded helmet across the floor. "Fucking son of a bitch…" he slung his M4, and wiped his face with his hands.

"Motherfucker…" Griggs pulled off his helmet, indicating for his men to do the same. One by the one, the men of Second Squad became a little more human as they unclipped their MICH's and strapped them to their belts.

"Command, this is Red Dog." Vasquez muttered into his radio. "We've cleared the TV Station, but no sign of Al-Asad. It's a fake. Further orders…Griggs, turn that shit off."

"Roger that. Got something better anyways." Jackson watched as Griggs reached into his pocket, before his eyes widened.

"Oh come on Griggs, fuck no man, not now."  
"Shut it Sergeant." Griggs ignored him as he placed the CD into one of the players in the room. A moment later, and Al-Asad was gone, replaced with Griggs voice, singing one of his rap songs.

"Fuck no…"

"Aww, come on Staff-Sergeant."

"Shut up, all of you!" Vasquez turned, hefting his M16. "Command wants us to re-arm, reload and then commence foot patrols on the streets. The Commando's are gonna set up in here as our Forward Operating Base for now. Humvee's are en route, West, you're back on the Javelin."

"Oo-rah." West nodded, leaning back and taking a breath. Jackson checked his gear. Four mags left, three two-oh-threes.

"OK, Team One, get out link up with the Brits. Rest of you, reload and rehydrate, we move out in six-zero Mikes."


End file.
